CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  RHETORICAL  THEORY 
Edited  by  Fred  Newton  Scott,  Ph.  D. 

Junior  Professor  of  Rhetoric  in  the   University  of  Michigan 


V. 

THE   METAPHOR: 

A  STUDY  IN  THE  PSYCHOLOGY   OF   RHETORIC 
BY  GERTRUDE  BUCK,  Ph.  D. 

INSTRUCTOR  IN  ENGLISH  IN  VASSAR  COLLEGE. 


THE  INLAND    PRESS 

ANN   ARBOR 

MICH. 


7  i  (olTD 


C  V 


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INTRODUCTION. 

The  subject  of  metaphor  bristles  with  problems.  Is  this  figure  a 
natural  product  or  an  artificial .''  How  does  it  come  to  be  ?  How  does 
it  die?  How  is  it  related  to  plain  statement .'  How  are  "radical"  meta- 
phors different  from  "poetical"  ?  Why  does  metaphor  please  the  reader? 
How  does  it  become  ' '  mixed"  ?  These  are  questions  which  every  serious 
consideration  of  the  subject  must  at  least  attempt  to  answer. 

Such  solutions  as  have  hitherto  been  furnished  these  problems  have 
been  rooted  in  the  philosophy  of  an  earlier  generation,  now  discredited. 
The  purpose  of  this  study  is  to  explain  metaphor  in  terms  of  the  con- 
temporary psychology.  In  so  doing  it  has,  perhaps,  been  inevitable 
that  a  new  face  should  be  put  upon  this  figure.  From  a  mechanical 
structure  it  has  become  a  biologic  organism.  It  has  come  to  stand  as 
the  linguistic  representative  of  a  certain  stage  in  the  development  of 
thought,  and  thus  an  expression  perfectly  natural  and  universal,  rather 
than  as  a  literary  device,  somewhat  artificial  and  wholly  unique,  obedi- 
ent to  no  laws  save  those  empiric  ones  whose  validity  extends  no  farther 
than  to  itself. 

In  this  conception  of  metaphor  the  present  study  differs  from  the 
rhetorical  treatises  as  a  class,  though  building  upon  their  foundations.  It 
also  deviates  from  the  practice  of  the  rhetoricians  in  distinguishing  care- 
fully between  the  metaphor  as  viewed  from  the  writer's  and  from  the 
reader's  standpoint.  The  fact  of  such  a  distinction  has  been  often 
implied,  but  the  essential  difference  between  the  activities  set  up  in  each 
case  has  not  been  explained  and  the  one  activity  has  often  been  confused 
with  the  other. 

The  doctrines  that  metaphor  is  invariably  antecedent  to  plain  state- 
ment, that  radical  and  poetic  metaphor  differ  only  in  representing  differ- 
ent stages  in  the  development  of  a  perception,  that  metaphor  is  pleasurable 
to  the  reader  because  of  the  harmoniously  differentiated  activities  which 
it  sets  up  in  his  mind  and  body,  are  doctrines  not  formulated  by  the 
rhetoricians.  They  grow,  however,  directly  from  the  fundamental  con- 
ception that  metaphor  is  the  expression  in  language  of  a  certain  stage  in 
the  development  of  perception. 

It  has  seemed  natural  to  consider,  first,  the  normal  metaphor,  and 
afterward  some  abnormal  variations  from  the  type.  The  term  "pathol- 
ogy" in  its  application  to  rhetorical  processes  has  been  borrowed  from 
Dr.  Fred  Newton  Scott,  Junior  Professor  of  Rhetoric  at  the  University 
of  Michigan,  who  first  used  it  in  a  paper  entitled  "Diseases  of  English 
Prose,"  read  before  the  annual  meeting  of  the  Modern  Language  Asso- 
ciation, in  December,  1896. 

To  Dr.  Scott  I  am  also  indebted  for  much  stimulus  and  criticism  in 
the  preparation  of  this  thesis;  to  Dr.  John  Dewey,  now  of  the  University 
of  Chicago,  for  the  fundamental  philosophic  conceptions  embodied  in  it, 
to  Professor  Francis  W.  Kelsey  of  the  University  of  Michigan,  Professor 
Milton  W.  Humphreys  of  the  University  of  Virginia,  and  Dr.  Mary 
Gilmore  Williams,  now  professor  of  Greek  at  Mt.  Holyoke  College,  for 
a  large  number  of  classical  metaphors  which,  though  few  of  them  appear 
upon  these  pages,  have  been  of  the  greatest  assistance  to  my  own  study 
of  the  subject. 


CONTENTS. 


Introduction 
Chapter  I. 
Chapter  II. 
Chapter  III. 
Chapter  IV. 
Chapter   V. 


Genesis:     The  Radical  Metaphor 
Genesis:     The  Poetic  Metaphor 
The  Evolution  into  Plain  Statement 
The  Aesthetics  of  Metaphor 
Pathological  Forms  of  Metaphor 

Summary  of  Conclusions         -         - 

Appendices — 

A.  Bibliography  _  -  -  -  - 

B.  Former  Definitions  of    Metaphor 


ni 
I 
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36 
46 
60 
68 

70 
7S 


CHAPTER    I. 

GENESIS:       THE    RADICAL    METAPHOR. 

A  comparative  study  of  the  existing^  definitions  of  metaphor,  while 
not  in  itself  without  interest,  yields  to  the  theory  of  the  subject  far  less 
than  might  fairly  be  expected.  The  results  of  such  a  study  may  be  sum- 
marized' in  the  two  general  statements  that  the  definitions  examined  are 
all  essentially  alike,  and  that .  all  are  descriptive  rather  than  genetic, 
static  instead  of  dynamic. 

That  all  existing  definitions  of  metaphor  are  practically  identical, 
means  that  Aristotle's  conception  of  this  figure  has  simply  repeated  itself  4 
in  each  succeeding  generation  of  rhetorical  treatises.  To  him  metaphor 
was  essentially  a  transference  of  meaning  from  one  word  to  another  over 
the  bridge  of  analogy.^  Later  definitions  only  phrase  somewhat  differ- 
ently the  same  idea.  Metaphor  is  the  use  of  a  word  denoting  one  object 
to  indicate  another  object  resembling  the  first  in  some  particular;  or  it  is 
the  "comparison"  of  two  objects;  or  it  i&the  affirmation  of  the  identity 
of  two  objects.'  In  spite  of  superficial  diversities,  it  is  evident  that  all 
these  definitions  come  in  the  end  to  the  same  thing.  Each  is  based 
upon  a  recognition  of  the  composite  character  of  the  metaphor.  Each 
resolves  the  figure  into  at  least  two  parts.  There  is  the  thing  meant 
and  the  thing  said;  the  object  of  which  the  writer  is  speaking  and  the 
object  to  which  it  is  compared.  What  rhetorician  has  not  seen  that 
when  one  speaks  of  oak-trees  as  "green-robed  senators'"  two  distinct 
elements  are  involved,  (i)  the  trees  and  (2)  the  senators,  to  which  they  are 
compared  ?  And  in  addition  to  these  two  constituents  a  third  is  often 
noted,  the  resemblance  which  exists  between  the  two  objects  and  justi- 
fies their  comparison. 

So  much,  then,  can  we  learn  about  metaphor  from  the  definitions 
delivered  to  us.  It  is  not  a  simple  structure,  but  duplex  *,  or  even  trip- 
licate. It  is  essentially  a  "gedoppelte  Ausdruck."*  Plain  statement 
says  one  thing;  metaphor  says  two.  Plain  statement  is  single,  meta- 
phor is  double.  While  the  straightforward,  prosaic  method  would  be  to 
express  an  idea  in  tetms  of  itself,  the  metaphor  expresses  it  in  terms  of 
another  idea.  Yet,  to  express  one  idea  in  terms  of  another  logically 
requires  some  connection  between  them.  This  connection  is,  for  meta- 
phor, that  of  resemblance.  Every  metaphor  may,  accordingly,  be 
analyzed  into  three  parts,  the  two  constituent  objects  or  ideas  and  the 
connecting  link  between  them. 

'  The  quotation  and  classification  of  previous  definitions  will  be  found  in  Appendix  B. 
^  See  Appendix  B. 
'Keats,  Hyperion,  Book  I. 

*  "Des  Metaphorische,"  sajrs  Hegel,  "das  in  sich  selbst  diese  Zweiheit  ist."     AesiA.  I, 

507 

*  Hegel,  Aesth.  I,  507. 


—  2  — 

Thus  far  our  definitions  have  laid  bare  the  structure  of  the  meta- 
phor. They  have  taken  the  figure  to  pieces,  and  it  lies  apart.  But  at 
this  point  their  service  ends.  They  have  dissected  the  dead  body  of  the 
metaphor;  but  they  have  not  told  us  how  the  living  figure  came  to  be, 
nor  what  it  in  essence  is.  And  this  is  what  we  wish  to  know — not 
merely  the  anatomy  of  the  metaphor,  but  its  life.  We  must  learn,  not 
only  that  there  are  two  major  constituents  in  this  figure,  but  how  they 
came  to  co-exist  there.  Did  they  appear  simultaneously  .■"  And  if  so, 
out  of  what  were  they  born  ?  Or  did  one  first  come  into  being  and 
draw  the  other  to  a  position  at  its  side  .-'  But  in  this  case,  whence  came 
the  one  ?  And  by  what  means  did  it  grapple  to  itself  the  other  ?  How 
do  these  two  die  out  of  the  figure  so  that  it  ceases  to  be  a  metaphor  ? 
What,  in  short,  is  the  life-history  of  metaphor  ?  What  process  in  the 
mind  of  the  writer  lies  back  of  the  figure  as  it  stands  in  type  ?  What 
process  is  induced  in  the  mind  of  the  reader  ? 

These  are  questions,  it  is  plain,  touching  the  psychology  of  the 
writer  and  of  the  reader  of  a  metaphor.  We  can  give  no  adequate 
answers  to  them  from  the  merely  descriptive  definitions  of  this  figure. 
Let  us  then  put  aside  for  the  present  these  definitions  and  betake  our- 
selves to  such  accounts  as  we  have  in  rhetorical  and  philological  treatises 
of  the  genesis  and  growth  of  metaphor.  These  accounts,  we  shall  find, 
begin  with  Cicero,  who  advances  two  hypotheses  as  to  the  origin  of 
metaphor.  "  Necessity,"  he  says,  "was  the  parent  (of  metaphorical 
speech)  compelled  by  the  sterility  and  narrowness  of  language;  but  after- 
wards delight  and  pleasure  made  it  frequent;  for  as  dress  was  first 
adopted  for  the  sake  of  keeping  off  the  cold,  but  in  process  of  time 
began  to  be  made  an  ornament  of  the  body,  so  the  metaphorical  use  of 
words  was  originally  invented  on  account  of  their  paucity,  but  became 
common  from  the  delight  which  it  afforded."* 

Later,  Quintilian'  concludes  that  meaning  is  transferred  from  one 
object  to  another,  either  because  there  is  no  proper  word  corresponding 
to  the  object  to  which  transfer  is  made,  or  because,  if  there  is  a  proper 
word,  the  transferred  word  is  for  some  reason  preferable.  Both  these 
explanations,  it  is  evident,  agree  in  explaining  the  use  of  metaphorical 
words  as  due  to  one  of  two  causes:  (i)  The  poverty  of  language,  or  (2) 
the  desire  to  ornament  speech.  Transfer  of  meaning  takes  place  either 
because  it  is  necessary,  or  because  it  is  pleasurable.  If  we  include  under 
the  second  hypothesis  the  considerations  that  a  transfer  of  meaning 
makes  speech  more  vivacious',  more  energetic*,  or  forcible',  clearer',  more 

*Cic.  L>e  Oratore^  III,  38,  tr.  by  J.  S.  Watson,  Bohn  Ed.  Bauer  repeals  lais  explanauon 
almost  verbatim:  "  Die  Metaphorische  Redeweise  ist  vielumfassend  und  von  der  Notwendig- 
keit  erzeugt  im  Drange  der  .Armut  und  Verlegenheit,  nachmals  aber  gesucht  worden  um  ihrer 
Anmut  und  Lieblichkeit  willen."     Das  Bild  in  der  Sprache,  II,  p.  27. 

'See  definition.  Appendix  B. 

•CampBell,  Philos.  of  Rhet.,  Bk.  Ill,  Ch.  I,  %YL. 

♦Whately,  Eh.  of  Rhet.,  Pt.  Ill,  Ch.  II,  §3. 

»Wendell,  Eng.  Comp.,  Ch.  VII. 

•Oenung,  Pract.  Els.  of  Rhet.,  Ch.  Ill,  p.  90. 


_3  — 

vivid  and  picturesque',  more  economicaP,  more  stimulating',  we  may  say 
that  all  explanations  of  the  origin  of  metaphor  are  covered  by  the  dilemma 
of  Cicero,  j  Philologists  and  philosophers  have,  for  the  most  part,  empha- 
sized the  hypothesis  of  the  poverty  of  language,  rhetoricians  that  of  the 
desire  for  ornamenting  speech.  The  separation  between  the  two  has 
thus  grown  with  time,  until  it  has  come  to  be  pretty  generally  accepted 
as  dividing  the  genus  metaphor  into  two  distinct  species,  one  of  which 
comes  into  being  as  the  result  of  the  scarcity  of  proper  words,  the  other 
as  the  expression  of  a  tendency  to  ornament  speech.  This  classification 
of  metaphors  goes  back,  by  implication  at  least,  to  Quintilian,  who  shows 
that  we  use  this  figure  sometimes  perforce,  but  sometimes  "with  a  view 
to  significance  or  force  of  expression."* 

Hugh  Blair  states  the  rationale  of  this  division  somewhat  decisively 
in  the  following  passage:  "But  although  the  barrenness  of  language 
and  the  want  of  words  be  doubtless  one  cause  of  the  invention  of  tropes, 
yet  it  is  not  the  only  nor' perhaps  even  the  principal  source  of  this  form 
of  speech.  Tropes  have  arisen  more  frequently  and  spread  themselves 
wider  from  the  influence  which  imagination  possesses  over  language."* 
But  by  far  the  most  definitive  separation  of  metaphors  into  two  classes^ 
on  the  basis  of  their  origin  has  been  made  by  Max  Miiller.  "I  call  it 
radical  metaphor, "  he  says,  ' '  when  a  root  which  means  to  shine  is  applied 
to  form  the  names  not  only  of  the  fire  or  the  sun,  but  of  the  spring  of  the 
year,  the  morning  light,  the  brightness  of  thought,  or  the  joyousout burst 

of  hymns  of  praise From  this  we  must  distinguish  poetical 

metaphor,  namely,  when  a  noun  or  verb  ready  made  and  assigned  to  one 
definite  object  or  action  is  transferred  poetically  to  another  object  or 
action."® 


'Carpenter,  Exs.  in  Rhet.^  Adv.  Course,  2d  Ed.,  Ch.  XII,  p.  199. 

^Spencer,  Philosophy  of  Style,  Scott's  Ed.,  p.  25. 

»A.  S.  Hill,  Prins.  of  Rhet.,  Ed.  1896,  pp.  I18-II9. 

*"This  change  (transfer  of  meaning)  we  make  either  because  it  is  necessary, 

adds  to  significance;  or,  as  I  said,  because  it  is  more  ornamental From  necessity  the 

rustics  speak  of  the  gemma,  '  bud  '  of  the  vines  (for  how  else  could  they  express  themselves  ?  ) 
and  say  that  the  corn  thirsts  and  that  the  crops  suffer.  From  necessity  we  say  that  a  man  is  rough 
or  hard,  because  there  is  no  proper  term  for  us  to  give  to  these  dispositions  of  the  mind.  But 
we  say  that  a  man  is  inflamed  with  anger,  burning  with  desire,  and  has  fallen  into  error,  with  a 
view  to  significance  or  force  of  expression."  Institutes  of  Oratory,  Watson's  Tr.,  Bk.  VIII, 
Ch.  6,  §§  6  and  7. 

^Lectures  on  Rhetoric  and  Belles  Lettres,  Lect.  XII,  p.  151. 

®Miiller,  Science  of  Language,  Second  Series,  Lect.  VIlI,  p.  371.  The  same  statement  is 
made  in  varying  phrases  throughout  Muller's  writings:  "  Metaphor,  therefore,  ought  no  longer 
to  be  understood  as  simply  the  premeditated  act  of  a  poet,  as  a  conscious  transference  of  a  word 
from  one  object  to  another.  This  is  modern,  fanciful,  individual  metaphor,  while  the  old  meta- 
phor was  much  more  frequently  a  matter  of  necessity-''— v^<^^^«.  46:621-2.  "This  process  (of 
radical  metaphor)  is  different  and  ought  to  be  distinguished  from  another,  namely,  the  transfer- 
ence of  ready-made  words  from  one  well-known  object  to  another  equally  well  known  object, 
as  when  the  poets  call  the  rays  of  the  sun  arrows,"  etc. — Fortn.  46:617.  In  like  manner  Bauer 
and  Von  Raumer  divide  the  genus  metaphor  — "  Man  muss,"  so  says  Bauer.  "  nun  zwischen  zwei 
Arten  der  Metapher  unterscheiden,  welche  ich  die  radicale  und  die  poetische  nennen  will." — Das 
Bild  in  der  Sprache,  I,  p.  25.  Then  follows  Miilier's  distinction.  The  following  is  Von  Raumer's 
division:  "I.  Metaphern,  welche  durch  den  Mangel  eines  treffenden  Ausdrucks  hervorgerufen 
wurde.  II.  Metaphern  welche  dem  Schmucke  der  Rede  dienen." — Die  Metapher  bet  Lucrez^  p.  i. 
See  also  Hegel,  Aesth.  I,  pp.  505-6. 


—  4  — 

This  classification  of  metaphors  has,  apparently,  become  pretty 
firmly  entrenched.  One  species,  that  which  has  arisen  from  the  neces- 
sity of  borrowing  words,  has  been  handed  over  to  the  philologists  and  the 
philosophers.  The  other,  which  has  grown  out  of  the  desire  to  ornament 
speech,  is,  by  common  consent,  remanded  to  the  rhetoricians.  We  shall, 
perhaps,  do  well  to  allow  this  division  for  the  present,  and  betake  our- 
selves in  turn  to  the  students  of  language  and  of  rhetoric  for  light  upon 
the  origin  of  metaphor. 

From  the  philologists  we  shall  obtain  no  explicit  formulation  of  any 
theory  for  the  genesis  of  the  figure  save  that  of  the  poverty  of  language, 
and  hence  the  necessity  of  borrowing  the  designations  of  material  objects 
to  represent  spiritual  conceptions;  or,  as  some  prefer  to  state  the  same 
hypothesis,  the  extension  of  names  properly  applied  to  material  objects 
until  they  should  cover  correspondent  spiritual  conceptions  as  well.  Max 
Muller  commonly  stands  as  the  philological  sponsor  of  this  idea,  though 
we  must  turn  to  Locke  for  its  ultimate  source.  The  classic  passage  upon 
which  all  succeeding  writers  have  drawn  may  again  be  quoted  here:  "It 
may  also  lead  us  a  little  towards  the  original  of  all  our  notions  and 
knowledge,  if  we  remark,  how  great  a  dependence  our  words  have  on 
common  sensible  ideas;  and  how  those,  which  are  made  use  of,  to  stand 
for  actions  and  notions,  quite  removed  from  sense,  have  their  rise  from 
thence  and  from  obvious,  sensible  ideas,  are  transferred  to  more  abtruse 
significations,  and  made  to  stand  for  ideas  that  come  not  under  the 
cognizance  of  our  senses;  e.  g.  to  imagine,  apprehend,  comprehend, 
adhere,  conceive,  instil,  disgust,  disturbance,  tranquility,  etc. ,  are  all 
words  ta,ken  from  the  operations  of  sensible  things  and  applied  to  cer- 
tain modes  of  thinking.  Spirit  in  its  primary  signification  is  breath; 
angel,  a  messenger;  and  I  doubt  not  that  if  we  could  trace  them  to  their 
sources,  we  should  find,  in  all  languages,  the  names  which  stand  for 
things,  that  fall  not  under  our  senses,  to  have  had  their  first  rise  from 
sensible  ideas.  By  which  we  may  give  some  kind  of  guess  what  kind  of 
notions  they  were  and  whence  derived,  which  filled  their  minds,  who 
were  the  first  beginners  of  language;  and  how  nature,  even  in  the  nam- 
ing of  things,  unawares,  suggested  to  men  the  originals  and  principals  of 
all  their  knowledge;  whilst,  to  give  names  that  might  make  known  to 
others  any  operations  they  felt  in  themselves,  or  any  other  ideas,  that 
came  not  under  their  senses  they  were  forced  to  borrow  words  from  ordi- 
nary, known  ideas  of  sensation,  by  that  means  to  make  others  the  more 
easily  to  conceive  those  operations,  they  experienced  in  themselves, 
which  made  no  outward  sensible  appearance.'" 

The  theory  is  rendered  into  Blair's  vernacular  without  substantial 
change:  "Men  naturally  sought  to  abridge  this  labor  of  multiplying 
words  in  infinitum;  and,  in  order  to  lay  less  burden  on  their  memories, 
made  one  word,  which  they  had  already  appropriated  to  a  certain  idea 
or  object,  stand  also  for  some  other  idea  or  object,  between  which  and 
the  primarv  one  they  found,  or  fancied,  pome   relation, The 

i  Locke,  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding.     Bk.  Ill,  Ch.  I,  §  5. 


—  5  — 

operations  of  the  mind,  and  affections,  in  particular,  are,  in  most  lan- 
guages, described  by  words  taken  from  sensible  objects.  The  reason  is 
plain.  The  names  of  sensible  objects  were,  in  all  languages,  the  words 
most  early  introduced;  and  were,  by  degrees,  extended  to  those  mental 
objects  of  which  men  had  most  obscure  conceptions,  and  to  which  they 
found  it  more  difficult  to  assign  distinct  names.  They  borrowed,  there- 
fore, the  name  of  some  sensible  idea  where  their  imagination  found  some 
affinity.  "> 

In  the  citations  so  far  made  we  have  simply  the  statement  that  the 
names  of  material  objects  are  borrowed  to  designate  spiritual  concep- 
tions, this  transaction  being  justified  by  the  existence  of  a  certain  resem- 
blance or  analogy  between  the  two.  We  are  not  assured  that  the  bor- 
rower saw  this  analogy  clearly,  or  that  his  seeing  it  incited  him  to  the 
borrowing.  But  Muller  and  Whitney  set  at  rest  all  our  doubts  upon 
this  point.  "The  mental  process,"  says  Muller,  "which  gave  to  the 
root  mar  the  meaning  of  to  propitiate  was  no  other  than  this,  that  men 
perceived  some  analogy  between  the  smooth  surface  produced  by  rub- 
bing and  polishing  and  the  smooth  expression  of  countenance,  the 
smoothness  of  voice,  and  the  calmness  of  looks  produced  even  in  an  enemy 
by  kind  and  gentle  words.  Thus,  when  we  speak  of  a  crane  we  apply 
the  name  of  a  bird  to  an  engine.  People  were  struck  with  some  kind  of 
similarity  between  the  long-legged  bird  picking  up  his  food  with  his  long 
beak  and  their  rude  engines  for  lifting  weights."*  And  in  like  strain, 
Whitney:  "Abstract  words  have,"  he  says,  "been  won  through  the 
transfer  to  an  ideal  use  of  words  and  phrases  which  had  before  desig- 
nated something  physical  and  sensible.  And  the  transfer  was  made  in 
the   usage   of   individuals  and  communities  who  saw  a   resemblance  or 


'^Lectures  on  Rhetoric  and  Belles  Lettres,  Lect.  XIV.  Compare  the  following:  "All 
expressions  of  mental  phenomena  are  borrowed  from  analogous  material  experiences." — Hoef- 
ding,  Outlines  of  Psychology,  p.  133,  Lowndes  tr.  "Because  language  is  developed  under 
the  influence  of  attention  directed  to  the  external  world,  we  find  that  expressions  for  mental 
phenomena  were  originally  taken  from  the  material  world.  The  inner  world  of  mind  is  denoted 
by  symbols  borrowed  from  the  outer  world  of  space." — Hoeffding,  Outlines  0/ Psychology',  p.  2. 
''  Every  word  which  is  used  to  express  a  moral  or  intellectual  fact,  if  traced  to  its  root  is  found 
to  be  borrowed  from  some  material  appearance.  Right  means  straight,  wrong  means  twisted. 
Spirit  primarily  means  wind;  transgression,  the  crossing  of  a  line;  supercilious  the  raising  of  the 

eyebrow Thought  and  emotion   are  words  borrowed   from  sensible   things,  and  now 

appropriated  to  spiritual  nature. "^Emerson,  Nature,  Ch.  IV  (Language).  "  Because  of  this 
radical  correspondence  between  visible  things  and  human  thoughts,  savages,  who  have  only 
what  is  necessary,  converse  in  figures.  As  we  go  back  in  history,  language  becomes  more  pic- 
turesque, until  its  infancy,  when  it  is  all  poetry,  or  all  spiritual  facts  are  represented  by  natural 
symbols." — Emerson,  iVa/wr^',  Ch.  IV  (Language).  "  Man  is  at  first  by  the  action  of  all  his 
faculties,  carried  out  of  himself  and  toward  the  external  world;  the  phenomena  of  the  external 
world  strike  him  first,  and  hence  these  phenomena  receive  their  first  names.  The  first  signs 
are  borrowed  from  sensible  objects,  and  they  are  tinged  to  a  certain  extent  by  their  colors. 
When  man  afterwards  turns  back  upon  himself,  and  lays  hold  more  or  less  distinctly  of  the 
intellectual  phenomena  which  he  has  always,  though  somewhat  vaguely  perceived,  if  then,  he 
wants  to  give  expression  to  the  new  phenomena  of  mind  and  soul,  analogy  leads  him  to  connect 
the  signs  he  seeks  with  those  he  already  possesses;  for  analogy  is  the  law  of  all  growing  or  devel- 
oped language.  Hence  the  metaphors  to  which  our  analysis  traces  back  most  of  the  signs  and 
names  of  the  most  abstract  moral  ideas." — Victor  Cousin,  quoted  by  Miiller,  Science  of  Lan- 
guage, Second  Series,  p.  367. 

2  Science  of  Language,  Second  Series,  p.  369. 


analogy  between  the  physical  act  and  the  mental  and  who  were  ingen- 
ious enough  to  make  an  application  of  material  already  familiar  to  new 
and  needed  uses."'  "Every  figurative  transfer  which  ever  made  a  suc- 
cessful designation  for  some  non-sensible  act  or  relation,  before  undesig- 
nated, rested  upon  a  previous  perception  of  analogy  between  the  one 
thing  and  the  other;  no  one  said  apprehend  of  an  idea  until  he  had  felt 
the  resemblance  between  the  reaching  out  of  the  bodily  organs  after  a 
physical  object  he  wished  to  handle  and  the  striving  of  the  mental 
powers  toward  a  like  end."  ^ 

Also  Barrett  Wendell:  "  Tendo  means  to  stretch;  ad  means  to  or 
toward;  attention  really  means  a  stretching  out  toward.  In  some 
remote  past  it  was  a  metaphor  used  by  some  old  speaker  of  Latin  who 
perceived  that  the  process  of  mind  by  which  we  attend  to  anything  is 
very  like  the  physical  process  by  which  we  stretch  out  our  hand  to  grasp 

a  tangible  object The  original  maker  of  the  word  (apprehend) 

saw  the  likeness  between  the  mental  process  of  what  we  now 

call  apprehension  and  the  physical  process  of  grasping.  He  called  the 
one  by  the  name  that  really  denoted  the  other."  ' 

Now,  let  us  consider  for  a  moment  what  is  implied  in  such  a  theory 
as  this.  In  the  mere  statement  its  inherent  fallacies  start  out.  Miiller, 
whose  doctrine  we  may  instance  as  the  completest  formulation  of  the 
position  we  are  discussing,  holds  substantially  that  there  was  a  time  in 
human  history  when  only  names  for  the  material  facts  of  life  existed; 
what  we  now  call  abstract,  intellectual,  or  spiritual  facts  not  being 
known;  that  when  these  intellectual  or  spiritual  conceptions  did  appear 
in  the  consciousness  of  the  individual,  each  by  its  resemblance  to  a  cer- 
tain well-known  material  entity,  suggested  that  entity  to  the  mind  of 
the  speaker,  who  thereupon  borrowed  the  name  of  the  material  as  an 
appropriate  expression  of  the  spiritual  fact.  The  transaction  was  purely 
commercial.  The  demand  was  made  for  a  label  to  affix  upon  a  newly 
manufactured  conception;  and  since  none  existed  which  had  been 
designed  specifically  for  this  purpose,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  use 
another  label,  such  as  properly  appertained  to  a  conception  resembling 
in  some  ways  the  nameless  species.  Thus  when  spirit,  a  new  concep- 
tion, came  into  the  field  of  human  consciousness,  it  stood  there  naked 
and  shivering,  until  it  was  clothed  upon  by  the  word  breath,  which 
represented  an  analogous  material  object.* 

Now,  if  only  we  could  be  certain  of  two  things,  we  should  not 
hesitate  to  adopt  this  theory;  the  two  things  being,  (i)  that  where  the 
name  of  a  material  was  first  transferred  to  a  spiritual  fact,  the  one  con- 
ception was  so  sharply  distinguished  from  the  other  in  the  mind  of  the 
speaker  as  to  make  them  in  realitv  two  separate  ideas;  and  (2)  that  the 

^  Oriental  and  Linguistic  Studies,  "Schleicher  and  the  Physical  Theory  of  Language," 

p.  304- 

*  Life  and  Growth  of  Language,  Ch.  VIII,  pp.  137-8. 
'^English  Composition,  Ch.  VII,  p.  248. 

*  Max  Miiller,  Science  of  Language,  Second  Series,  p.  369.  W.  D.  Whitney,  Life  and 
Growth  of  Language^  Ch.  VIII,  p.  137. 


UNI  V  i:..;   .::i  '   i    ); 

resemblance  between  them  was  so  clear  to  the  borrower  that  it  could 
serve  as  an  incitement  to  unite  the  two  under  one  name,  or  as  a  justifi- 
cation for  the  project  of  using  the  name  of  the  one  for  the  other. 

Are  these  points,  however,  unquestionable?  May  we  safely  assume 
that  the  spiritual  fact,  before  it  is  named,  has  such  a  separate,  clear-cut 
existence  in  the  mind  which  assigns  to  it  the  name  of  the  correspondent 
material  fact  as  is  implied  by  the  borrowing  theory?  Does  a  new  con- 
ception spring  into  language  thus  completely  defined  and  distinct  from 
all  other  conceptions?' 

The  answer  of  modern  psychology  to  this  question  is  distinctly 
negative.  The  definition  of  an  idea  is  a  long  and  gradual  process,  much 
like  that  by  which  a  formless  sprawl  of  protoplasm  becomes  a  firmly 
articulate  creature;  or  like  that  by  which  a  dark,  irregular  blur  against 
the  landscape  grows  little  by  little,  as  one  approaches  it,  into  the  sharp 
outline  of  a  clump  of  trees,  with  all  their  minute  ramifications  and  inter- 
lockings.  The  individual  consciousness,  both  as  to  the  whole  and  as  to 
its  parts,  grows  by  successive  differentiations  into  greater  and  yet  greater 
distinctness  of  outline  and  richness  of  detail.  According  to  the  accepted 
theories  of  mental  development,  the  first  state  of  the  individual  con- 
sciousness is  like  that  of  the  primeval  earth,  without  form  and  void. 
Gradually,  however,  out  of  the  wide-weltering  chaos,  the  vaguest  and 
largest  physical  sensations  roughly  define  themselves,  those  of  comfort 
as  against  discomfort;  hunger  as  opposed  to  satisfaction;  light  in  con- 
trast to  darkness;  oneself  versus  others.  Each  of  these  large  sensations 
can  then  differentiate  itself  still  further; — that  of  light,  for  instance,  into 
the  different  colors,  these  into  tints  or  shades,  and  these  again  into  half- 
tones. This  process  of  differentiation  is  the  task  of  the  entire  mental 
life.  Says  James:  "The  object  which  the  numerous  inpouring  currents 
of  the  baby  bring  to  his  consciousness  is  one  big,  blooming,  buzzing 
confusion.  That  confusion  is  the  baby's  universe;  and  the  universe  of 
all  of  us  is  still  to  a  great  extent  such  a  confusion,  potentially  resolvable 
and  demanding  to  be  resolved,  but  not  yet  actually  resolved,  into 
parts.  "^  The  task  of  all  succeeding  experiences  is  to  separate  out  from 
this  chaos  of  sensation  its  particular  elements.  Continually  the  vague 
discriminations  grow  finer  and  sharper.  The  homogeneous  sense  of  com- 
fort or  discomfort  finally  becomes  the   epicure's   keen  pleasure  in  the 

'  Miiller,  himself,  in  later  writings,  repudiates  this  idea,  and  asserts  unequivocally:  "To 
imagine  in  the  earliest  periods  of  language  a  real  transference  of  name  from  a  known  thing  to 
an  unknown,  would  be  contrary  to  one  of  the  leading  principles  of  the  Sciences  of  Thought  and 
Language,  namely,  that  nothing  can  be  to  us  without  a  name.  The  act  of  clothing  naked  con- 
cepts with  old  garments  is  an  act  of  charity  which  we   never  perform.     What  really  happens  is 

that  names  vary  in  intension As  the  conceptions  lose  their  full  intension their 

names  become  larger,  i.  e.,  become  applicable  to  new  germinal  concepts  which  are  but  waiting 
for  a  name  to  spring  into  life." — Fortn.  46:632.  It  may  here  be  noted  that  this  apparently  new 
hypothesis  of  Miiller  is  really  but  a  slight  variation  upon  the  extension-of-names  theory.  (See 
infra.)  It  differs  slightly  from  the  customary  form  of  this  theory,  however,  in  its  assertion  that 
words  become  less  specialized  by  use.  If  this  were  true,  which  unfortunately  it  is  not,  our 
problem  would  be  far  different.  The  psychological  and  philological  considerations  touched  upon 
in  the  succeeding  pages  will  be  sufficient  disproof  of  Miiller's  astonishing  dictum. 

*  Psychology,  Briefer  Course,  Ch.  II.,  pp.  15-16. 


—  8  — 

complex  flavors  of  a  French  soup,  the  musician's  appreciation  of  each 
separate  motif  in  a  symphony,  or  the  artist's  sharp  discrimination  of  a 
hundred  different  shades  of  green  in  the  spring  landscape.  The  mental 
life,  like  the  physical,  organizes  itself  from  the  whole  to  its  parts,  from 
simplicity  to  complexity,  from  homogeneousness  to  differentiation. 

Transferring  this  theory  of  the  progress  of  intellectual  experience  to 
the  philological  field,  we  should  expect  to  find  the  earliest  speech-forms 
expressive  not  of  clear-cut  and  well  defined  ideas,  but  of  somewhat 
large  and  vague,  complex  but  unanalyzed  sensations.  Let  us,  however, 
inquire  of  the  philologists  whether  this  expectation  is  answered  by  the 
fact.  There  are  commonly  held  to  be  two  opinions  among  students  of 
language  as  to  the  psychological  nature  of  the  earliest  forms  of  speech. 
An  early  school,  of  which  we  may  take  Miiller  as  the  type,  is  said  to 
affirm  that  root-words  have  always  a  general  or  an  abstract  significa- 
tion.' 

A  later  faction,  among  whom  may  be  instanced  Sayce  and  Bleek, 
are  held  to  oppose  this  view  by  regarding  the  most  primitive  expressions 
as  essentially  concrete  and  particular  in  meaning.'"' 


'  "  Most  roots  that  have  yet  been  discovered  had  originally  a  material  meaning,  and  a 
meaning  so  general  and  comprehensive  that  they  could  easily  be  applied  to  many  special 
objects." — Miiller,  Science  of  Language,  p.  370.  "The  Science  of  Language,  by  inquiring 
into  the  origin  of  general  terms,  has  established  two  facts  of  the  highest  importance,  namely, 
first,  that  all  terms  were  originally  general;  and  secondly,  that  they  could  not  be  anything  but 
general."  —  Miiller,  Science  of  Thotighl,  p.  456.  "If  the  science  of  language  has  proved 
anything,  it  has  proved  that  every  term  which  is  applied  to  a  particular  idea  or  object  (unless  it 
be  a  proper  name)  is  already  a  general  term." —Miiller,  Science  of  Thought,  p.  549.  "  In  order 
that  any  such  name  [as  canis  to  dog]  could  be  given,  it  was  requisite  that  general  ideas,  such  as 
roving,  following,  stealing,  running,  resting,  should  previously  have  been  formed  in  the  mind, 
and  should  have  received  expression  in  language.  These  general  ideas  are  expressed  by  roots." 
— Miiller,  Science  of  Language^  Second  Series,  Ch.  VII,  p.  329.  For  an  equivalent  statement 
see  W.  D.  Whitney,  Life  and  Growth  of  Language,  Ch.  IV,  pp.  29S-9. 

^  Sayce  declares  that  the  history  of  language  development  shows  everywhere  a  progress 
from  words  representing  particular  to  those  corresponding  to  general  ideas.  He  cites  in  support 
of  this  dictum  the  facts  so  universally  noted  in  the  vocabulary  of  modern  savages,  that  "the 
individual  objects  of  sense  have  names  enough,  while  general  terms  are  very  rare.  Thus  the 
Mohicans  have  words  for  cutting  various  objects,  but  none  to  signify  cutting  simply,  and  the 
Society  Islanders  can  talk  of  a  dog's  tail,  a  sheep's  tail,  or  a  man's  tail,  but  not  of  tail  itself. 

The  Tasmanians  were  so  utterly  deficient  in  the  power  of  forming  abstract  ideas,  that 

they  were  obliged  to  say  Mike  the  moon,'  or  some  other  round  object,  when  they  wanted  to 
express  the  conception  of  roundness." — Prins.  of  Compar.  Phihl.,  2nd  Ed.,  Ch.  VI,  pp.  221-2. 
The  following  statement  is  parallel:  The  aborigines  of  Tasmania  could  not  "express  abstract 
qualities,  such  as  hard,  soft,  warm,  cold,  long,  short,  round,  etc.:  for  'hard,'  they  would  say 
'like  a  stone;'  for  'tall,'  they  would  say  'long  legs,'  etc.;  for  'round,'  they  said  'like  a  ball,' 
'like  the  moon,'  and  so  on." — Milligan,  Vocabulary  of  the  Dialects  of  Some  of  the  Aboriginal 
Tribes  of  Tasmania,  p.  34.  Quoted  by  Miiller,  Chips  from  a  German  Workshop,  Vol.  V,  p.  76 
(On  the  Philosophy  of  Mythology).  Bleek  reaches  the  same  conclusion  from  psychological 
considerations.  "The  perception  of  which  one  is  conscious  on  hearing  a  sound,  was  designated 
by  a  word  which  arose  from  the  imitation  of  the  sound.  This  perception  was  not  at  all  of  an 
abstract  or  general  character,  but  an  altogether  concrete  and  individual  one.  For  instance,  had 
a  word  been  formed  from  imitation  of  the  note  of  the  cuckoo,  its  concept  could  not  possibly  have 
been  limited  to  that  of  the  bird,  or  to  that  of  crying,  or  to  any  property  of  the  animal  or  its 
utterance,  etc.,  etc.,  but  the  whole  situation,  in  so  far  as  it  came  into  the  consciousness,  was 
indicated  by  the  word.  The  frequent  hearing  of  the  same  sound  was  of  itself  enough  to  bring 
the  salient  points  of  the  situation  into  consciousness,  but  the  signification  of  the  word  still  com- 
prehended the  most  heterogeneous  elements,  whereof  one  was  made  more  prominent  in  one  con- 
pection,  another  in  another." — The  Origin  of  Language^  p.  67. 


—  9  — 

It  is  quite  possible,  however,  that  the  breach  between  these  two 
Tepresentative  points  of  view  may  be  not  so  wide  as  at  first  it  seems. 
Muller's  position,  as  commonly  understood,  is  quite  self-contradictory. 
On  the  one  hand  he  regards  root  meanings  as  abstract  conceptions  due 
to  a  combination  of  concrete  impressions,  and  again  he  declares  that 
"All  roots,  i.  e.,  all  the  material  elements  of  language,  are  expressive  of 
sensuous  impressions,  and  of  sensuous  impressions  only."'  He  urges 
also  ^  that  most  roots  ' '  had  originally  a  material  meaning. "  Plainly  a 
"sensuous  impression"  and  a  "material  meaning"  are  not  synonymous 
with  a  "general  "  in  the  sense  of  an  abstract  idea.' 

It  is  not  probable  that  Muller  thought  the  matter  out  into  this  anti- 
thesis; if  he  had  done  so,  he  would  undoubtedly  have  defined  somewhat 
more  narrowly  his  use  of  the  word  "general"  so  as  to  avoid  the  appar- 
ent contradiction;  bnt  it  is  quite  possible,  by  reference  to  the  situations 
in  which  he  constantly  employs  the  term,  to  understand  it  not  in  the 
philosophic  sense  of  abstract  or  conceptual,  but  in  the  looser  meaning  of 
vague,  largely  inclusive,  little  defined.  For  instance,  the  citation  made 
on  a  foregoing  page,*  in  which  it  is  stated  that  most  roots  had  originally 
a  meaning  "so  general  and  comprehensive  that  they  could  readily  be 
applied  to  man}-  special  objects,"  seems  to  indicate  such  an  understand- 
ing of  the  word.* 

'  Science  of  Language,  Second  Series,  p.  372. 

2 See  Note  i,  p.  8. 

^Romanes  puts  this  inconsistency  sharply  in  the  following  passage:  "He  (Max  Miiller) 
has  failed  to  distinguish  between  ideas  as 'general,'  and  what  we  have  called  'generic;'  or 
between  an  idea  that  is  general  because  it  is  born  of  an  intenrional  synthesis  of  the  results  of  a 
previous  analysis,  and  an  idea  that  is  generalized,  because  not  yet  differentiated  by  any  inten- 
tional analysis,  and  therefore  representing  simply  an  absence  of  conceptual  thought.  My 
child,  on  first  beginning  to  speak,  had  a  generalized  idea  of  similarity  between  all  kinds  of 
bright,  shining  objects,  and  therefore  called  them  all  by  the  one  denotative  name  of  'star.'  The 
astronomer  has  a  general  idea  answering  to  his  denominative  name  of  '  star, '  but  this  has  been 
arrived  at  after  a  prolonged  course  of  mental  evolution  wherein  conceptual  analysis  has  been 
engaged  in  conceptional  classification  in  many  and  various  directions;  it  therefore  represents  the 
psychological  antithesis  of  the  generalized  idea,  which  was  due  to  the  merely  sensuous  associa- 
tions of  preconceptual  thought." — Metttal  Evolution  in  Man,  p.  336.  In  pronounced  anti- 
thesis to  Miiller,  Romanes  sets  the  views  of  Bleek  on  the  subject:  "As  a  result  of  his  (Bleek's) 
prolonged  and  first-hand  study  of  the  subject,  he  is  strongly  of  opinion  that  aboriginal  words 
were  expressions  '  not  at  all  of  an  abstract  or  general  character,  but  exclusively  concrete  or  indi- 
vidual.' By  this  he  means  that  primitive  ideas  were  what  I  have  called  generic,  for  he  says  that 
had  a  word  been  formed  from  imitation  of  the  sound  of  a  cuckoo,  for  instance,  it  could  not  pos- 
sibly have  had  the  meaning  limited  to  the  name  of  that  bird;  but  would  have  been  extended  so 
as  to  embrace  'the  whole  situation  so  far  as  it  came  within  the  consciousness  of  the  speaker.' 
That  is  to  say,  it  would  have  become  a  generic  name  for  the  whole  recept  of  bird,  cry,  flying, 
etc.,  etc.,  just  as  to  our  own  children  the  word  ba-a=sheep,  bleating,  grazing,  etc.  Now,  this 
process  of  comprising  under  one  denotative  term  the  hitherto  undifferentiated  perceptions  of  '  a 
whole  situation,  so  far  as  it  comes  within  the  consciousness  of  the  speaker,'  is  the  very  opposite 
of  the  process  whereby  a  denominative  term  is  brought  to  unify,  by  an  act  of  'generalization,' 
the  previously  well-differentiated  concepts  between  which  some  analogy  is  afterward  discov- 
ered."— Mental  Evolution  in  Man^  p.  337. 

*P.  8. 

*  Compare  the  similar  use  by  Leibnitz:  "  Les  termes  g^n^raux  ne  servent  pas  seulement 
a  la  perfection  des  langues,  mais  m^me  ils  sont  necessaires  pour  leur  constitution  essentielle. 
Car  si  par  les  choses  particuliires  on  entend  les  sndividuelles,  il  serait  impossible  de  parler,  s'il 
n"y  avait  que  de  noms /rij/rtfj  et  point  d'appellatifs,  fcsX.  a  dire,  s'il  n'y  avait  des  mots  que 
pour  les  individus,  puis  qu'a  tout  moment  il  en  revient  de  nouveaux  lorsqu'il  s'agit  des  individus, 
des  accidens  et  particulierement  des  actions,  qui  sont  ce  qu'on  designe  le  plus:  mais  si  par  les 


—  10  — 

But  this  is  also  essentially  what  Bleek  means  when  he  says '  that  the 
root-word  indicated  "the  whole  situation"  presented  to  the  speaker  at 
the  particular  moment,  and  thus  represented  a  perception  ' '  altogether 
concrete  and  individual."  "The  whole  situation"  is  as  yet  in  the  mind 
of  the  primitive  man  a  vague  and  formless  sensation,^  As  Sayce  himself 
puts  it:  "Language  is  the  expression  of  thought;  and  the  first  ideas 
were  as  much  undifferentiated  embryos  as  the  jelly  fish  on  the  shore  or 
the  beehive  life  of  primeval  man.  There  was  no  unity  in  them;  idea 
had  not  been  subordinated  to  idea;  but  each  was  the  mere  individual 
impression  of  the  moment,  with  all  the  vagueness  and  complexity  of  a 
sensation."^ 

choses  particulieres  on  entend  les  plus  basses  especes  (species  infimas)  outre  qu'il  est  difficile 
bien  souvent  de  les  determiner,  il  est  manifeste  que  ce  sent  deja  des  universaux,  fondes  sur  la 
similitude  plus  ou  moins  etendue,  selon  qu'on  parle  des  genres  ou  des  especes,  il  est  naturel  de 
marquer  toute  sorte  de  similitudes  ou  convenances  et  par  consequent  d'eraployer  des  termes  gen- 
eraux,  etant  moins  charges  par  rapport  aux  idees  ou  essences,  qu'ils  renferment,  quoiqu'ils  soient 
plus  comprehensifs,  par  rapport  aux  individus,a  qui  ils  conviennent,  etaient  bien  souvent  les 
plus  aises  a  former,  et  sont  les  plus  utiles.  Aussi  voyez  vous  que  les  enfans  et  ceux  qui  ne 
savent  que  peu  la  langue,  qu'fls  veulent  parler,  ou  la  matiere,  dont  ils  parlent,  se  servent  des 
termes  generaux  comme  chose,  plante,  animal,  au  lieu  d'employer  les  termes  propres  qui  leur 
manquent.  Et  il  est  sur  que  tous  les  noms  propres  ou  individuels  ont  ete  originairement 
appellatif  ou  giniraux.^' — Opera  Philosophica^  Erdman's  ed.  p.  297.  Sayce  very  cleverly 
reconciles  the  self-contradiction  of  Miiller  as  follows:  "There  is,  however,  a  truth  in  the  pre- 
vailing theory  (that  original  roots  were  abstract  in   meaning) The  sentence  comes 

before  the  word,  the  indefinite  before  th^  definite;  and  the  root  period,  as  we  have  seen,  is  char- 
acterized by  the  want  of  differentiation.  The  Aryan  root,  consequently,  while  primarily  denot- 
ing an  individual  object,  would  have  done  so  in  a  very  different  way  from  that  in  which  we 
should  denote  the  same.  The  individual  can  only  be  properly  understood  in  relation  to  the 
general:  when,  therefore,  the  idea  of  the  general  has  not  yet  been  arrived  at,  the  idea  of  the 
particular  is  at  once  vague  and  sensuous.  The  word  which  denotes  it  is  merely  a  mark,  nothing 
more;  just  as  much  as  a  proper  name,  and  with  no  more  subjective  reference  than  the  proper 
name  has.  So  long  as  the  object  can  be  pointed  out  sensibly,  the  meaning  and  the  reference  of 
the  word  is  unmistakable.  We  know  exactly,  for  instance,  who  a  particular  John  or  Henry  are 
when  they  are  indicated  by  the  finger;  but  when  the  object  is  not  present,  the  signification  and 
content  of  the  word  is  wholly  vague  and  uncertain.  The  jud'^ment  which  is  summed  up  in  it  is 
not  determined  by  immediate  reference  to  such  and  such  a  thing;  we  can  not  think  this  is  a 
tree;  and  accordingly  each  person  forms  his  own  judgment  and  attaches  a  different  interpreta- 
tion to  the  vocable.  The  term  is  not  yet  defined  by  its  external  object  and  language  has  not 
yet  arrived  at  the  explication  of  its  words  by  other  means.  In  this  way  the  Aryan  roots  might 
easily  have  come  to  have  those  vague  general  significations  which  are  ascribed  to  them,  although 
they  properly  represented  individual  objects  and  actions." — Prins.  of  Compar.  Philol.^  2d  Ed., 
Ch.  VI,  pp.  225-6. 
iSee  p.  8. 

2  It  seems  more  than  probable  that  psychologically  considered,  this  first  unformulated  impres- 
sion of  a  situation  may  have  been  in  final  analysis  an  embryo  act,  its  most  primitive  species,  per- 
haps, being  simply  that  of  eating  or  of  turning  from  food,  of  facing  an  enemy  or  running  from 
him.  Such  an  incipient  activity  must  undoubtedly  precede  the  intellectual  translation  of  the 
situation  in  terms  of  explicit  perception.  Suggestive  of  this  hypothesis  are  the  following  state- 
ments: '*  We  may  be  tolerably  certain  that  the  things  capable  of  satisfying  hunger  form  a  per- 
fectly distinct  class  in  the  mind  of  any  of  the  more  intelligent  animals;  quite  as  much  as  if  they 
were  able  to  use  or  understand  the  word  food." — ^J.  S.  Mill,  Exain.  of  Hamilton' s  Philos.,  p.  403. 
(Quoted  by  Romanes,  Mental  Evolution  in  Man,  p.  42.)  ''The  tendency  to  apply  the  same  term 
to  a  large  number  of  objects,  ('ball'  to  ball,  orange,  moon,  lamp-globe,  etc.) can  be  understood,  I 
think,  only  if  we  keep  in  mind  the  extent  to  which  the  formal  noun  '  ball '  has  really  an  active  sense. 
'  Ball '  is  '  to  throw'  just  as  much  as  it  is  the  round  thing.  I  do  not  believe  that  the  child  either 
confuses  the  moon  with  his  ball,  or  abstracts  the  roundness  of  it;  the  roundness  suggests  to  him 
something  he  has  thrown,  so  that  the  moon  is  something  to  throw — if  he  could  only  get  hold  of 
it." — John  Dewey,  The  Psychology  of  Infant  Language^  Psych.  Rev.  Vol.  I,  p.  63.  "  Wenn 
zuerst  eine  Wurzel  ausgesprochen  wurde,  sie  einen  Vorgang  in  der  Seele,  einen  Lebensakt  dar- 
stellte." — Gerber,  Die  Sprache  als  Kunst,  I,  p.  229. 

*  Prins.  of  Compar.  Philol.,  2d  Ed.,  Ch.  VI,  pp.  243-4. 


—  11  — 

Both  the  philosophers,  then,  and  the  philologists  have  helped  us 
toward  the  same  conclusion,  namely,  that  the  first  impressions  in  lang- 
uage were  likely  to  be  those  of  large,  chaotic,  little-differentiated  percep- 
tions. But  let  us  see  how  this  a  priori  judgment  is  corroborated  by 
the  records  which  we  have  of  the  actual  speech  of  children  during  their 
early  years. 

M.  Taine  has  given  us  some  interesting  data  upon  this  point.*  Of 
his  young  daughter  at  the  age  of  twelve  months  he  writes:  Her  grand- 
mother * '  often  showed  her  a  painted  copy  of  a  picture,  by  Luini,  of  the 
infant  Jesus  naked,  saying  at  the  same  time,  'There's  bebe.'  A  week 
ago,  in  another  room  where  she  was  asked  '  Where's  bebe  T  meaning 
herself,  she  turned  at  once  to  the  pictures  and  engravings  that  happened 
to  be  there.  Bebe  has,  then,  a  general  signification  for  her,  namely, 
whatever  she  thinks  is  common  to  all  pictures  and  engravings  of  figures 
and  landscapes,  that  is  to  say,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  something  varie- 
gated in  a  shining  frayne.  In  fact  it  is  clear  that  the  objects  painted  or 
drawn  in  the  frame  are  as  Greek  to  her;  on  the  other  hand  the  bright 
square  inclosing  any  representation  must  have  struck  her.  This  is  her 
first  general  word."^ 

"She  was  in  the  habit  of  seeing  a  little  black  dog  belonging  to  the 
house,  which  often  barks,  and  to  which  she  first  learned  to  apply  the 
word  oua-oua.  Very  quickly  and  with  very  little  help  she  applied  it  ta 
dogs  of  all  shapes  and  kinds  that  she  saw  in  the  streets  and  then,  what 
is  still  more  remarkable,  to  the  bronze  dogs  near  the  staircase.  Better 
still,  the  day  before  yesterday,  when  she  saw  a  goat  a  month  old  that 
bleated,  she  said  'oua-oua,'  calling  it  by  the  name  of  .the  dog,  which  is 
most  like  it  in  form  and  not  by  that  of  the  horse  which  is  too  big,  or 
of  the  cat,  which  has  quite  a  different  gait."^ 

' '  Cola  (chocolate)  is  one  of  the  first  sweetmeats  that  was  given  her 

and  it  is  the  one  she  likes  best Of  herself   ....   she  has 

extended  the  meaning  of  the  word  and  applies  it  now  to  anything  sweet; 
she  says  cola  when  sugar,  tart,  a  grape,  a  peach,  or  a  fig  is  given  to  her."* 

' '  The  above  mentioned  little  boy  of  twenty  months  used  the  word 
teterre  (pomme  de  terre)  to  designate  potatoes,  meat,  beans,  almost 
everything  good  to  eat,  except  milk  which  he  called  lolo.  Perhaps  to 
him  teterre  meant  everything  solid  or  half  solid  that  is  good  to  eat."* 

'Article  in  Revue  Philosophique,  No.  i,  Jan.  1876,  translated  in  Mind,  Vol.  11,  pp.  252-259. 
Paul's  general  declaration  is  most  interesting  in  this  connection:  A  child  "  will  more  commonly 
err  on  the  side  of  width  than  of  narrowness  of  application,  and  the  more  so  according  as  his 
stock  of  words  is  more  limited.  A  child  will  include  a  sofa  under  the  name  of  a  chair,  an  um- 
brella under  the  name  of  a  stick; and  this  repeatedly." — Frins.  of  Hist,  of  Lang.  ^t^. 

79-80.  And  Preyer's  statement  embodies  precisely  the  thesis  of  this  chapter:  "The  two  com- 
prehensive, too  indefinite  concept  atta  (away,  gone,)  has  broken  up  into  more  limited  and  more 
definite  ones.  It  has  become,  as  it  were,  differentiated,  as  in  the  embryo  the  separate  tissues  are 
differentiated  out  of  the  previously  apparently  homogeneous  tissues." — The  Mind  of  tke  Child^ 
tr.  by  H.  W.  Brown,  Pt.  II,  ch.  XVIII,  p.  123. 

*  Mind,  II,  p.  254. 

^ Mind,  II,  p.  255. 

*Mind,  II,  p.  256. 

'^  Mind,  n,  footnote  p.  256. 


—  12  — 

"  Yesterday  means  to  her  in  the  past,  and  tomorrow  in  the  future, 
neither  of  these  words  denoting  to  her  mind  a  precise  day  in  relation  to 
today,  either  preceding  or  following  it."^ 

It  will  be  noted  that  while  Taine  here  uses  the  terms  "extension  of 
meaning"  and  "general  words,"  his  illustrations  warrant  neither  phrase. 
The  first  instance  shows  simply  a  vague  perception  of  the  particular 
picture  of  Luini,  an  association  of  the  name  beb6  with  this  perception 
and  a  confusion,  due  to  the  vagueness  of  the  first  perception,  between 
this  particular  picture  and  all  others  which  presented  to  the  child  prac- 
tically the  same  sensation.  The  word  bebe  represented  no  general,  in 
the  sense  of  abstract,  idea;  but  simply  a  complex  perception  as  yet  so 
cloudy  and  so  undifferentiate  that  any  similar  situation  could  readily  be 
mistaken  for  it.  Upon  this  point  Paul  remarks:  "For  the  simple  and 
unreasoning  mind  of  childhood,  it  is  sufficient  if  the  contents  of  the  idea 
presented  to  it  agree,  to  warrant  an  identifying  process  on  his  part, 
whether  real  identity  exists  or  not.  And  further,  such  agreement  needs 
to  be  partial  only — indeed,  under  some  circumstances,  merely  trivial — to 
cause  this  identification;  that  is,  as  long  as  the  mental  impression  is  still 
vague  and  confused.  Thus  it  is  that  on  the  very  commencement  of  the 
process  of  acquiring  language,  the  custom  grows  of  defining  by  the  same 
word,  not  merely  a  single,  but  several,  not  merely  objects  which  actually 
resemble  each  other,  but  such  as  bear  even  a  remote  resemblance."'' 

In  regard  to  the  phrase  "extension  of  meaning;"  the  term  cola  was 
not  stretched  to  cover  other  edibles  which  were  perceived  to  resemble 
chocolate  in  sweetness,  but  the  one  sweetmeat  was  to  the  child's  hazy 
sense,  the  other,  as  the  picture  of  the  Christ-child  was  any  other  simi- 
larly framed.      Between  the  two  no  distinction  of  detail  had  yet  arisen. 

The  rise  of  a  certain  distinction  is,  however,  to  be  noted  in  the  case 
of  the  boy  oi  twenty  months.  To  him  the  difference  between  solid 
things  to  eat  and  liquid  things  to  eat  had  become  so  apparent  as  to  pre- 
vent the  identification  of  the  sensation  arising  from  the  one  with  that 
occasioned  by  the  other.  Being  recognized  as  different  sensations,  the 
two  of  necessity  received  different  names,  teterre  for  the  solid,  lolo  for 
the  liquid,  food.  For  the  same  reason  the  girl  could  not  call  the  young 
goat  by  the  name  for  horse.  The  detail  of  size  had  emerged  from  the 
complex  perception  and  stood  out  so  clearly  as  to  make  quite  impossible 
a  confusion  between  the  sensations  horse  and  kid.  Nor  could  she  give 
to  the  kid  the  name  of  the  cat,  whose  gait  (so  M.  Taine)  at  once  dis- 
tinguished the  complex  sensation  of  its  appearance  from  that  of  the 
young  goat.' 

Richard  Grant  White  makes  a  typical  misinterpretation  of  this 
vague  use  of  words  by  the  child  when  he  remarks,  of  the  application  of 

*  Mind,  II,  p.  259. 

^  Prins.  of  Hist,  of  Lang.,  Ch.  IV,  p.  79. 

'For  other  instances  of  the  large,  undifferentiate  use  of  words  on  the  part  of  children,  see 
Preyer,  The  Mind  of  the  Child,  tr.  by  H.  W.  Brown,  Pt.  II,  Ch.  XVIII;  K.  C.  Moore,  Mental 
Development  of  a  Child,  Pt.  IV.  Sec.  II;  Barnard  Perez,  The  First  Three  Years  of  Childhood, 
tr.  by  A.  M.  Christie,  Ch.  Xl;  Sully,  Studies  of  Childhood,  Ch.  V. 


—  13  — 

the  term  "pussy-cat"  to  all  fur  and  velvet,  "The  child  knows  as  well 
as  its  mother,  that  her  muff  or  her  gown  has  not  four  legs,  claws,  whisk- 
ers and  a  tail;  and  it  has  no  purpose  of  concealing  that  knowledge.  But 
its  poverty  of  language  enables  it  to  speak  of  the  muff  and  the  velvet 
gown  only  by  a  name  which  expresses  to  the  child  the  quality  which  the 
muff,  the  gown,  and  the  animal  have  in  common."* 

Now  here  lies  the  fallacy.  The  child  does  not  know  "  as  well  as  its 
mother  "  that  the  muff  and  the  kitten  differ  in  that  the  one  has  head,  legs 
and  claws,  while  the  other  has  not.  Out  of  its  hazy  perception  of  a  soft 
furry  something  these  details  have  not  yet  developed.  They  do  not  at 
the  moment  form  any  part  of  the  child's  consciousness.  Its  perception 
is  of  a  soft  furry  something,  not  further  defined,  to  which  the  generic 
term  pussy-cat  perfectly  applies. 

We  are  here  brought  back  to  our  point  of  departure,  the  borrowing 
theory  of  the  genesis  of  metaphor.  We  have  seen  that  in  the  early 
stages  of  thought-developmentj  words  stand  not  for  some  unique  clearly- 
defined  entity  in  the  world,  but  for  a  somewhat  inchoate  perception  of  a 
whole  situation,  the  details  of  which  have  not  yet  disentangled  them- 
selves so  as  to  be  projected  sharply  against  the  consciousness.  As  a 
result  of  this  vagueness  of  perception,  situations  in  detail  very  different 
are  seen  as  identical  and  the  same  name  applied  to  each.  But  this  pro- 
cess is  essentially  other  than  that  asserted  by  Locke  and  his  disciples. 
The  two  objects  of  thought  do  not  stand  side  by  side  in  the  mind  of  the 
primitive  man  until  he  chances  to  note  a  resemblance  between  them, 
and  is  thereby  warranted  in  applying  the  name  of  the  one  to  the  other. 
The  two  are  one  so  far  as  his  perception  can  testify.  They  have  not  yet 
been  separated  out  of  the  original  sensation.  Gummere  states  the  case 
precisely:  "A  child,  even  now,  does  not  call  a  bird's  nest  a  house  on 
the  basis  of  observed  relations  between  a  nest  and  a  house;  the  nest  is  a 
house.  There  is  no  like  about  it  until  the  child  (i)  increases  his  vocab- 
ulary with  the  word  '  nest '  and  its  meaning,  and  (2)  brings  the  new 
word  into  relations  with  the  old  word  ('house').  The  imagination  of 
primitive  man  was  not  analytic.  He  did  not  watch  some  ship  ride  the 
waves  and  muse:  '  How  like  yon  craft  is  to  a  fiery  steed !  I  liken  it  to 
a  fiery  steed — in  fact  I  shall  save  time  by  calling  it  a  fiery  steed.'  His 
restless  eye,  subject  to  no  fine  tutorings  of  reason,  saw  an  actual  horse 
bound  over  the  '  foaming  fields '  (not  in  their  turn  based  on  any  expanse 
of  water = expanse  of  land)"" 

It  is  only  after  the  nest  has  been  called  a  house,  the  velvet  a  pussy- 
cat, that  the  one  object  can  be  discriminated  from  the  other,  and  the 
real  relationship  of  the  two  becomes  evident  as  such. 

The  theory  that  the  material  significance  of  a  word  is,  in  the  early 
stages  of  language,  stretched  to  cover  an  intellectual  or  spiritual  concep- 
tion related  to  it  by  some  resemblance,  is  but  a  restatement  of  the  bor- 
rowing  hypothesis.       This   form  of  the    explanation,  however,  is  more 

1  Words  and  their  Uses,  25th  Ed.,  Ch.  V,  p.  82. 
*  Metaphor  and  Poetry,  Mod.  Lang.  Notes ^  I,  83. 

^     OF  TffE      y 

UNIVFRRTTV 


—  14  — 

inclined  to  give  due  value  to  the  looseness  of  the  name  which  has  already 
been  applied  to  the  material  object.  But  it,  too,  fails  in  assuming  an 
original  separation  between  the  material  and  the  spiritual  fact,  and  the 
speaker's  explicit  perception  of  an  analogy  between  them,  which  shall 
justify  his  pulling  over  the  one-half  the  other's  cloak.  The  same  argu- 
ments, then,  by  which  the  borrowing  hypothesis  has  been  condemned, 
destroy  also  the  validity  of  this  extension-of-meaning  theory. 

Let  us  now  go  back  to  some  of  the  radical  metaphors  whose  origin 
has  been  accounted  for  on  the  borrowing  theory  and  see  how  our  own 
hypothesis  would  explain  their  existence.  Instead  of  asserting  that  the 
root  mar  came  to  have  the  meaning  of  to  propitiate  because  ' '  men  pre- 
ceived  some  analogy  between  the  smooth  surface  produced  by  rubbing 
and  polishing  and  the  smooth  expression  of  countenance,  the  smoothness 
of  voice,  and  the  calmness  of  looks  produced  even  in  an  enemy  by  kind 
and  gentle  words,"  *  we  must  deny  to  the  mental  process  involved  any 
such  clear  definition  and  formal  character.  The  man  who  first  used  the 
word  mar  in  the  sense  of  to  propitiate  undoubtedly  did  so  because  he 
saw  darkly  the  mollifying  effect  upon  a  bristling  enemy,  which  Miiller 
describes,  as  a  situation  in  which  something  rough  swiftly  became  some- 
thing smooth.  The  differing  details  did  not  obtrude  themselves  into  his 
consciousness.      In  essence  the  two  situations  were  identical. 

So  in  the  case  of  the  children  whose  "metaphorical"  speech  is 
noted  by  Sully.  "A  star,"  he  says,  "looked  at,  I  suppose,  as  a  small 
bright  spot,  was  called  by  one  child  an  eye.  The  child  M.  called  the 
opal  globe  of  a  lighted  lamp  a  'moon.'  'Pin'  was  extended  by  another 
child  to  a  crumb  just  picked  up,  a  fly  and  a  caterpillar,  and  seemed  to 
be  something  little  to  be  taken  between  the  fingers.  The  same  child 
used  the  sound  'at'  (hat)  for  anything  put  on  the  head,  including  a 
hair-brush.  Another  child  used  the  word  'key'  for  other  bright  metal 
things,  as  money.  Romanes'  child  extended  the  word  '  star, '  the  first 
vocable  learned  after  'Mamma'  and  'Papa,'  to  bright  objects  generally, 
candles,  gas-flames,  etc.  Taine  speaks  of  a  child  of  one  year  who,  after 
first  applying  the  word  'fafer'  (from  'chemin  de  fer')  to  railway  engines, 
went  on  to  transfer  it  to  a  steaming  coffee-pot  and  everything  that 
hissed  or  smoked  or  made  a  noise."''  The  perception  of  the  first  child 
was  that  only  of  "a  small  bright  spot,"  not  of  a  star  or  an  eye,  in  our 
sense  of  the  two  words;  that  of  the  second  was  of  a  pale,  glowing 
sphere,  out  of  which  the  separate  objects  "lamp-globe"  and  "moon" 
had  not  yet  developed.  The  third  applied  the  word  ' '  pin  "  to  the  situa- 
tion of  picking  up  something  small  in  the  fingers.  '  'At  "  was  putting 
something  to  the  head;  "key,"  a  small  bright  metal  article;  "star," 
"bright  objects  generally;"  "fafer,"  "everything  that  hissed  or  made  a 
noise."  Each  of  these  words  represented,  not  two  differentiate  percep- 
ceptions  united  by  the  tie  of   resemblance,    but  a  perception    as   yet 

^  See  p.  5. 

*  Studies  of  Childhood,  Ch.  V,  pp.  162-3. 


—  15  — 

homogeneous  and  undeveloped,  which  must  later  separate  into  its  con- 
stituent elements.' 

Let  the  final  instance  be  that  of  the  word  "spirit."  Between  our 
sense  of  the  word  and  the  primitive  meaning  "breath,"  there  was  at  first 
no  distinction  of  thought.  Spiritus  meant  the  animating  principle, 
simply,  the  essence  of  life,  not  yet  differentiated  into  physical  and 
spiritual.  The  rise  of  such  conscious  differentiation  was  marked  by  the 
limitation  of  the  word  spirit  to  the  immaterial  meaning. 

We  may  say,  then,  that  radical  metaphors  were  not  metaphorical  ' 
when  first  used.  They  have  become  so  only  as  we  have  learned  to  dis-  \ 
criminate  between  the  two  situations  to  which  the  same  term  has  been  \ 
applied.  Until  men  recognized  a  difference  between  breath  and  spirit, 
the  word  spirit  had  no  metaphorical  sense.  In  other  words,  the  radical\ 
metaphor  is  psychologically  a  survival  from  a  primitive  stage  of  percep-/ 
tion,  a  vestige  of  the  early  homogeneous  consciousness.  It  represents  a 
state  of  mind  which  does  not  now  exist  in  relation  to  these  same  objects 
or  situations.  Hence  the  puzzle;  and  hence  the  natural  anachronism  of 
assuming  our  own  more  differentiate  perceptions  as  the  basis  for  an 
explanation  of  this  phenomenon.  This  is  what  Locke  and  all  his  fol- 
lowers have  done.  Because  we,  of  a  later  age,  see  with  some  distinct- 
ness the  essential  difference  between  spirit  and  breath,  therefore  the 
primitive  man  did — so  they  argue.  And  having  once  postulated  this 
statement,  they  are  thereby  driven  to  connect  the  two  conceptions 
again,  in  order  to  bring  them  under  the  mantle  of  the  same  word.  This 
they  do  by  the  obvious  analogy  between  them,  the  perception  of  which 
is  made  at  once  the  inciting  cause  and  the  justification  for  the  primitive 
speaker's  application  of  the  name  of  the  one  to  the  other.  But  to  assert 
that  for  the  modern  intelligence  there  exists  a  sense  of  "Der  parallel- 
ismus  in  den  Phanomenen  der  Welt,"^  is  by  no  means  proof  that  it  was 
overtly  perceived  by  the  naive  mind  of  the  aborigine.  On  the  contrary 
all  the  doctrines  of  recent  psychology  lead  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
actual  perception  of  resemblance  is  an  activity  comparatively  late  in  its 
development.  A  vague  feeling  of  the  identity  of  two  sensations  or  situa- 
tions must  repeatedly  be  experienced  before  it  can  b^  analyzed  into  the 
intellectual  recognition  of  a  resemblance  or  analogy.  This  first  hazy 
feeling  is  the  original  fire-mist,  out  of  which  solidifies  but  slowly  the 
explicit  comparison. 

This  dictum  of  psychology  is  confirmed  by  the  later  philological 
revelations  which  declare  that  the  early  utterances  of  man  were  the 
expression,  not  of  clear-cut  finished  conceptions  of  single  objects,  but  of 

^  Sully  says  of  the  case  of   Prayer's  boy,   who  "confused  'too  little'   with   'too  much,' 

and  'yesterday'  with  'tomorrow,' it  is  easy  to  see  that  the  child's  mind   had  reached 

merely  the  vague  idea  unsuitable  in  quantity  in  the  one  case  and  time  not  present  in  the  other, 
and  that  he  failed  to  differentiate  these  ideas."  The  confusion  between  'learn'  and  'teach,' 
'borrow' and  'lend,'  is  thus  explained:  "Such  words  as  learn,  teach,  call  up  first  a  pictorial 
idea  of  an  action  in  which  two  persons  are  seen  to  be  concerned.  But  the  exact  nature  of  the 
relation,  and  the  difference  in  its  aspect  as  we  start  from  the  one  or  the  other  term  are  not  per- 
ceived."— Studies  of  Childhood,  Ch.  V,  p.  165. 

2  Bauer,  Das  Bild  in  der  Sprache,  II,  28. 


Wie- 
the individual's  hazy,  ill-defined  sense  of  a  complex  situation,  out  of 
which,  one  by  one,  the  details  were  gradually  to  develop.  Under  this 
latter  hypothesis  the  confusion  under  the  same  name  of  two  situations 
potentially  differing  in  detail  becomes  readily  conceivable.  Radical 
metaphor  thus  may  be  regarded  as  a  natural  and  inevitable  outcome  of 
the  conditions  of  the  primitive  consciousness;  while  the  elder  theory 
makes  it  not  only  artificial  but  psychologically  impossible.' 
y  We  are  thus  compelled  to  discard  altogether  the  borrowing  theory 

of  the  origin  of  the  radical  metaphor,  as  based  upon  a  false  assumption 
of  the  psychology  of  the  aboriginal  mind,  and  are  driven  to  the 
belief  that  this  figure  arose  out  of  the  vagueness  of  a  first  unorganized 
sensation;  the  same  term  being,  thus,  without  sense  of  transfer,  applied 
to  situations  now  recognized  as  essentially  different,  but  then  felt  to  be 
identical.  To  paraphrase  the  common  dictum,  it  may  be  said  that  radi- 
(  cal  metaphor  arises  not  from  poverty  of  language  but  from  poverty  or 
l^immaturity  of  thought.  As  any  situation  is  enriched  by  the  emergence 
of  its  constituent  details  into  the  consciousness  of  the  speaker,  it  becomes 
more  and  more  impossible  to  identify  it  with  another  situation.  The 
chances  of  dissonance  are  increased  as  by  the  multiplication  of  tones  in 
a  musical  chord.  It  is  only  a  simple,  because  an  undeveloped  con- 
ception, that  can  be  confused  with  another.  Thus  radical  metaphor  is 
observable  only  in  past  stages  of  the  growth  of  a  language.  It  exists 
continually  but  can  not  be  recognized  as  such  until  the  stage  of  hom- 
ogeneity for  any  given  perception  has  been  passed.  Only  when  the 
situations  concerned  have  complexed  until  they  have  become  discordant 
and  incompatible,  can  they  be  recognized  as  two,  and  their  expression 
under  one  form  of  language  be  felt  as  metaphorical. 

To  summarize  briefly,  radical  metaphor  is  a  backward-looking  term. 
It  characterizes  a  past  stage  of  homogeneous  perception,  now  become 
heterogeneous.  Having  become  heterogeneous,  yet  bearing  a  homoge- 
neous name,  it  offers  a  puzzle  to  linguists  and  philosophers,  who  have 
hitherto  failed  to  recognize  the  past  state  of  the  perception  represented 
by  the  figure;  but  assuming  the  present  as  having  always  existed,  built 
up  their  explanation  upon  this  assumption.  On  going  back  to  the  prim- 
itive consciousness,  however,  we  must  regard  the  radical  metaphor  as  an 
expression  loosely  comprehending  two  or  more  situations,  now  quite 
distinct,  but  at  the  time  of  their  inclusion  under  the  same  term,  felt  to 
be  one. 

The  term  "radical  metaphor"  is,  then,  a  milestone  of  society's  intel- 
lectual progress.  It  marks  the  point  at  which  an  expression,  felt  by  its 
maker  to  be  single,  the  exact  representative  of  a  simple  sensation,  is 
recognized  by  others  as  dual,  as  suggestive  not  of  one  impression  or  sit- 
uation, but  of  two.     Other  people  could  not,  however,  thus  recognize 

'Miiller  takes  us  to  the  lowest  depths  of  absurdity  when  he  asserts  that  "one  of  the  first 
results  "of  an  age  in  which  there  were  no  names  save  those  applicable  to  the  commonest  experi- 
ences of  a  savage  life  ''would  naturally  be  that  objects  in  themselves  quite  distinct,  and  origin- 
ally conceived  as  distinct  by  the  human  intellect,  would  nevertheless  receive  the  same  name."" 
— Science  0/ Lang.,  Second  Series,  p.  373. 


—  17  — 

the  double  reference  of  the  expression,  had  not  their  perceptions  become 
keener  than  those  of  the  original  maker  of  the  expression.  To  their 
sharpened  intelligences  the  fire  and  the  sun,  "the  spring  of  the  year, 
the  morning  light,  the  brightness  of  thought,  the  joyous  outburst  of 
hymns  of  praise"'  could  no  longer  present  the  same  sensation.  The 
process  of  crumbling,  sickness  and  death,  evening  and  night,  old  age  and 
the  fall  of  the  year,  grew  distinct  from  one  another.  The  same  name 
as  applied  to  these  different  situations  was  not  felt  to  be  natural,  inevi- 
table, but  unusual,  demanding  explanation.  The  differences  between 
the  situations  had  dawned  and  the  use  of  the  same  word  to  represent 
them  had  become  metaphoric. 

In  so  far  as  this  recognition  of  the  metaphoric  or  dual  sense  of  the 
word  "crumbling,"  for  instance,  as  applied  to  old  age  takes  place,  the 
niind  which  recognizes  it  has  passed  beyond  the  intellectual  development 
of  the  first  user  of  the  expression.  He  made  no  metaphor,  in  the  ordi- 
nary sense  of  the  term.  There  was  no  doubleness  in  his  thought  or  in 
his  expression.  He  but  applied  to  a  single  situation  what  seemed  to  him 
its  ordinary,  accepted  name.  It  was  a  situation  not  before  represented 
in  language  because  it  had  not  hitherto  been  recognized  explicitly  enough. 
Our  primitive  metaphor-maker,  however,  perceives  it,  although  so  vaguely 
that  it  is  not  distinguished  from  other  situations  later  found  to  differ  from 
it.  He,  accordingly,  calls  it  by  the  name  commonly  applied  to  the  differ- 
ing situations  which  produce  upon  him  the  same  impression  and  neither 
he  nor  any  one  else  perceives  that  he  has  made  an  unusual  application 
of  the  name.  His  very  naming  of  this  new  situation  has,  however,  called 
attention  to  it.  It  begins  to  be  noticed  by  others  and  thus  gradually  to 
educate  the  perceptions  on  which  it  plays,  leading  them  to  finer  and  yet 
finer  discriminations.  Little  by  little  dawns  the  sense  that  this  situation 
is,  in  some  respects,  different  from  the  others  grouped  with  it  under  the 
same  designation.  It  breaks  away  from  these  other  situations,  and 
clamors  for  a  separate  name.  The  use  of  the  single  word  to  cover  two 
different  impressions  is  then  characterized  as  radical  metaphor.  The 
social  consciousness  has  passed,  in  respect  to  this  word,  from  homo- 
geneity to  complexity.  The  intellectual  advance  of  society  has  carried 
it  past  the  point  of  our  primitive  speaker's  confused  impressions  to  a 
finer  discrimination.  Here  the  situations  to  which  he  naively  applied 
the  same  term,  seeing  them  as  undistinguished,  have  grown  apart;  and 
lo,  his  simple  speech  has  become  a  figure !  He  himself  has,  indeed,  con- 
tributed to  this  intellectual  advance  of  society,  by  the  very  expression  of 
his  sensations  in  language;  the  expression  has  acted  to  bring  about  a 
condition  in  which  it  shall  be  felt  as  inadequate.  It  is  the  old  tragedy 
of  progress. 

The  perception  of  a  radical  metaphor,  it  may  be  said,  is  society's 
recognition  of  the  fact  that  an  idea  has  quite  outgrown  its  habitual  form 
of  expression.     When  uttered  the  expression  was  sufficiently  differentiate 

'Muller,  Science  of  Language^  Second  Series,  p.  371. 


—  18  — 

for  the  embryo  thought;  now  the  thought  has  grown  into  discriminations 
unrecorded  by  the  word.  The  result  is  a  tension  within  the  expression 
itself  which  brings  to  light  its  diverse  meanings  and  demands  relief.  This 
is  accomplished  usually  by  a  gradual  movement  in  the  direction  of  limit- 
ing this  word  to  one  of  its  tugging  significations,  and  remanding  the  other 
meaning  to  a  different  phrase.  Thus  the  word  spirit  is  now  used  only 
in  its  immaterial  sense,  the  material  signification  being  represented  by 
the  Saxon  breath.  Apprehend,  attention,  angel,  right  and  wrong,  (refer- 
ring to  the  examples  used  in  this  chapter),  are  purely  intellectual  terms 
now,  their  correlatives  lay  hold  of,  stretch  toward,  a  messenger,  straight 
and  twisted,  serving  the  physical  meanings.* 

To  put  the  whole  matter  into  a  sentence:  Specialization  in  language 
follows  at  some  distance  specialization  in  thought';  and  the  recognition  of 
any  expression  once  simple  as  metaphorical  marks  the  social  demand  for 
a  division  of  labor  on  the  part  of  language  which  shall  make  it  adequate 
to  the  growing  differentiation  of  the  thought  it  represents.  If  a  definition 
be  required,  radical  metaphor  arises  when  a  thought  has  outgrown  its 
form  of  expression.  It  is  the  bursting  forth  of  a  doubly  branching  sig- 
nificance from  the  single  sheath  of  language  once  adequate  to  contain  it. 


1  "Thus  as  the  general  movement  of  human  knowledge  is  from  recognition  of  sensible  objects 
to  an  ever  finer  analysis  of  their  qualities  and  determination  of  their  relations,  and  to  the  appre- 
hension of  more  recondite  existences,  objects  of  thought,  so,  as  the  accompaniment  and  neces- 
sary consequence,  there  is  a  movement  in  the  whole  vocabulary  of  language  from  the  designation 
.of  what  is  coarser,  grosser,  more  material,  to  the  designation  of  what  is  finer,  more  abstract  and 
conceptual,  more  formal." — Whitney,  Life  attd  Growth  of  Language,  Ch.  V,  pp.  S9-90. 


CHAPTER    II. 

GENESIS:       THE  POETIC  METAPHOR. 

The  last  chapter  discussed  the  theory  of  the  philologists,  that  met- 
aphor arises  from  poverty  of  language.  We  shall  now  examine  the 
hypothesis  propounded  by  the  rhetoricians,  that  this  figure  comes  into 
being  as  the  result  of  a  desire  to  beautify  or  to  energize  speech.' 

Broadly  speaking,  the  difference  between  radical  and  poetic  met-  '<^ 
aphor  as  commonly  understood,  is  the  difference  between  artlessness 
and  art.  Radical  metaphor  is  the  naive  act  of  a  mind  not  yet  conscious 
of  its  own  processes,  making  a  figure  because  it  must.  Poetic  metaphor 
is  the  purposeful  effort  of  a  writer  to  produce  a  certain  effect,  either 
upon  himself  or  upon  his  reader,  by  the  substitution  of  one  word  for 
another.  The  first  is  an  act  of  necessity,  the  second  of  free  choice. 
The  first  is  at  most  but  half  cognizant  of  the  end  attained;  the  second 
has  this  end  explicitly  in  mind  and  works  deliberately  toward  it. 

This,  I  say,  is  the  broad  distinction  between  the  two  as  it  is  com- 
monly professed.  We  have  seen  that  Max  Muller's  discussion  of  the 
radical  metaphor,  which  we  may  take  as  typical  of  all  existing  treatments 
of  the  subject,  makes  it,  in  the  last  analysis,  a  self-conscious  and  some- 
what formal  thing,  by  assuming  that  its  two  constituents  exist  separately 
in  the  speaker's  mind  and  are  welded  together  by  his  perception  of  a 
resemblance  between  them.  But  in  spite  of  this  illogical  departure 
from  his  initial  declaration,  the  idea  seems  to  have  persisted,  not  only 
in  Muller's  own  mind,  but  in  that  of  succeeding  rhetoricians, ^  that  radi- 
cal metaphor  does  essentially  differ  from  the  poetic  variety  by  its  greater 
naivete  and  unconsciousness  of  its  end.  The  poetic  metaphor  is  the  radical 
metaphor  grown  into  a  consciousness  of  itself.  While  the  radical  met- 
aphor is  unsophisticated,  crude,  forced  upon  its  maker  by  the  necessi- 
ties of  his  undeveloped  vocabulary  and  his  straining  impulse  to 
expression,  poetic  metaphor  is  "the  premeditated  act  of  a  poet,"'  "a 
conscious  transference  of  a  word  from  one  object  to  another." 

This  distinction  between  the  two  chief  varieties  of  metaphor  rests, 
then,  upon  the  conceptions  of  each  which  are  commonly  entertained 
among  philologists  and  rhetoricians.  Whether  or  not  the  present 
inquiry  will  sustain  it,  depends  upon  the  definition  of  the  poetic  meta- 
phor which  we  finally  accept.     So  far  as  our  study  of  the  radical  meta- 

*  See  Ch.  I.,  p.  2. 

*See  Ch.  I,  p.  3. 

'See  Ch.  I,  p.  3,  and  Bauer,  Appendix  B.  Note  also  Gummere's  statement:  "In 
like  manner we  may  render  abstract  by  concrete.  This  is  unconsciously  done  when- 
ever we  speak  of  abstract  ideas,  for  they  can  be  expressed  only  by  concrete  words.  Such  a  case 
is  the  word  attention,  which  passes  as  abstract,  but  really  means  a  stretching  towards.  Or  we 
may  do  it  half -consciously,  as  in  the  expressions  'deep  thought,'  'cool  determination.'  But  in 
poetry  we  do  it  consciously,  as  in  the  following:  'The  very  head  and  front  of  my  offending.' 
— Othello."     [The  italics  are  quoted.] — Handbook  of  Poetics,  p.  93. 


—  20  — 

phor  has  taken  us,  the  distinction  is  upheld.  The  conclusion  has  been 
reached  that  radical  metaphor  is,  as  the  philologists  have  said,  but  in  a 
sense  more  thorough-going  than  theirs,  a  naive,  an  untutored,  an  uncon- 
scious act.  So  far  from  the  primitive  man's  setting  out  to  make  a 
metaphor,  he  in  reality  did  not  make  one  at  all.  Society  made  it  for 
him,  by  passing  beyond  the  point  at  which  the  situation  he  saw  could 
seem  one.  The  radical  metaphor  was,  then,  an  act  thoroughly  straight- 
forward and  undesigned.  If  now,  we  shall  find  that  poetic  metaphor  is 
an  act  thoroughly  self-conscious  and  predetermined,  we  shall  be  justified 
in  confirming  the  judgment  already  passed  by  the  rhetoricians  as  to  the 
essential  separation  between  these  two  species  of  the  figure. 

Let  us,  then,  inquire  seriously  whether  the  poetic  metaphor  is,  in 
truth,  "the  premeditated  act"  of  its  maker.  Undoubtedly  the  origin  of 
this  idea  lies  in  the  fact  that  the  making  of  poetic  metaphor  could  not 
be  regarded  as,  in  the  practical  sense,  at  all  necessary.  Clearly  the 
radical  metaphor  was  needed;  for,  according  to  the  old  explanation,  a 
man  who  wished  to  designate  an  object  yet  unnamed,  was  powerless  to 
do  so  unless  the  name  of  another  related  object  could  be  extended  over 
it.  But  for  him  who  makes  a  poetic  metaphor  no  such  need  exists. 
Both  objects  concerned  in  his  metaphor  have  long  been  fitted  with 
proper  designations.  If,  therefore,  he  chooses  to  use  the  name  of  one 
in  place  of  the  name  of  the  other,  it  must  be  that  he  does  so  with  some 
purpose  less  simple  and  obvious  than  that  of  relieving  the  immediate 
necessities  of  his  speech.  His  act  cannot  be  the  instinctive  one  of  seizing 
what  he  needs,  as  the  hungiry  man  snatches  food.  It  must  b^  far  more 
complex  than  this.  He  could  have  used  simply  the  proper  name  of  the 
object  of  which  he  thought.  Why  did  he  not  do  so.-*  Why  did  he  take  the 
trouble  to  substitute  for  this  accredited  name  that  of  an  object  resem- 
bling the  one  of  which  he  wished  to  speak.^  What  did  he  expect  to  gain 
by  such  substitution.?     What  could  have  been  his  motive."* 

As  was  noted  in  Chapter  P  the  answers  to  this  question  are  many, 
but  all  may  be  reduced  to  two.  The  writer  wishes  either  to  beautify  or 
td^energize  his  speech.  But  this  is  not  a  final  answer.  Why  should  he 
wish  to  do  either  of  these  things.?  What  does  it  profit  him  to  make  his 
speech  either  more  beautiful  or  more  forcible.?  What  is  his  ultimate 
end.?  And  here  also  we  have  a  dual  answer.  If  the  writer  wishes  to 
make  his  expression  either  ornate  or  strong,  it  is  for  the  sake  of  its  effect 
upon  one  or  the  other  of  the  two  parties  to  the  process  of  communica- 
tion by  language — himself  and  upon  the  reader.  To  state  the  case 
more  specifically^''  the  writer  wishes  to  give  pleasure  to  himself  by 
indulging  his  natural  love  of  adornment,  in  speech  as  elsewhere',^>  or  to 
please*  the  reader.* 

*p.  2. 

'  Including  under  this  term  the  production  of  any  desired  effect. 

»Such  explanations  as  that  the  maker  of  a  poetic  metaphor  substitutes  one  name  for 
another  because  a  resemblance  exists  between  the  objects  represented  by  each,  is,  of  course,  no 
explanation  at  all  The  fact  of  resemblance  may,  indeed,  make  such  an  exchange  of  names 
possible,  but    it  will  not  necessarily  bring  it  about.     We  could  not  speak  of  the  sun  as  a  golden 


—  21  — 

The  idea  that  the  maker  of  a  poetic  metaphor  desires  to  please 
himself  by  substituting  the  name  of  one  object  for  that  of  another 
resembling  it,  is  not,  to  my  knowledge,  explicitly  affirmed  by  any  writer; 
though  Cicero  may  suggest  it  in  his  comparison  of  metaphor'  to  bodily 
ornament.  If  we  may  suppose  that  ornament  is  adopted,  in  part  at 
least,  for  the  wearer's  pleasure  in  it,  we  are  entitled  by  the  terms  of  the 
analogy  to  conclude  that  the  use  of  metaphor  results  to  some  degree 
from  the  desire  for  the  pleasure  it  gives  the  writer  himself.  We  need 
not  delay  long  upon  this  theory,  which  is  treated  chiefly  for  the  sake  of 
completeness.  We  may,  however,  note  in  passing  the  psychological 
difficulties  in  which  it  immediately  involves  itself.  The  "hedonistic 
fallacy"  of  supposing  that  the  idea  of  pleasure  can  serve  as  a  motive 
to  action  has  been  so  clearly  exposed,  both  by  James  and  by  Uewey, 
that  direct  quotation  from  their  discussions  of  this  subject  will  be  suffi- 
cient to  disprove  the  hypothesis.  "We  feel  an  impulse,"  says  James, 
"no  matter  whence  derived;  we  proceed  to  act;  if  hindered,  we  feel 
displeasure;  and  if  successful,  relief.  Action  in  the  line  of  the  present 
impulse  is  always  for  the  time  being  the  pleasant  course;  and  the 
ordinary  hedonist  expresses  this  fact  by  saying  that  we  act  for  the  sake 
of  the  pleasantness  involved.  But  who  does  not  see  that  for  this 
sort  of  pleasure  to  be  possible,  the  impulse  must  be  there  already  as  an 
indepe7ident  fact?  The  pleasure  of  successful  performance  is  the  result 
of  the  impulse,  not  its  cause." ^  And  later,  he  affirms  that  "the 
pleasure-philosophers,"  who  hold  that  we  act  always  for  the  sake  of  the 
pleasure  to  be  gained  from  the  action,  might  as  well  "suppose,  because 
no  steamer  can  go  to  sea  without  incidentally  consuming  coal,  .... 
that  therefore  no  steamer  can  go  to  sea  for  any  other  motive  than  that 
of  coal  consumption."-  In  a  foot  note  upon  the  same  page  is  quoted 
Hume's  assertion:^  "Though  the  satisfaction  of  these  passions  gives  us 
enjoyment,  yet  the  prospect  of  this  enjoyment  is  not  the  cause  of  the 
passions,  but,  on  the  contrary,  the  passion  is  antecedent  to  the  enjoy- 
ment, and  without  the  former  the  latter  could  never  exist.*" 


ball  if  a  likeness  in  shape  did  not  exist  between  the  sun  and  a  ball.  But  the  mere  fact  of  this 
likeness  is  powerless  to  induce  us  to  substitute  the  word  ball  for  the  word  sun.  Why  should  we 
take  the  trouble  to  call  the  sun  a  golden  ball,  even  if  the  two  objects  are  alike?  What  do  we 
gain  by  it?  What  is  it  that  we  wish  to  do?  There  must  be  some  motive  for  the  transfer,  to 
make  the  fact  of  resemblance  more  than  the  inert  possibility  of  a  metaphor.  "As  if  analogy 
were  somehow  a  force!"  remarks  Dr.  John  Dewey,  in  quite  another  connection.  (Psych.  Rev., 
■Vol.  I,  p.  557-) 

1  Psychology,  Vol.  II,  Ch.  XXVI,  p.  5^7. 

"^Psychology,  Vol.  II,  Ch.  XXVI,  p.  558. 

'From  his  Essay  on  the  Different  Species  of  Philosophy,  §  i,  note  near  end. 

*In  the  "Briefer  Course,"  James  declares  that  the  ideas  of  pleasure  or  pain  are  not  the 
source  of  our  primitive  actions,  those  which  are  instinctive  or  emotional.  "Who  smiles  for  the 
pleasure  of  smiling,  or  frowns  for  the  pleasure  of  the  frown?  Who  blushes  to  escape  the  dis- 
comfort of  not  blushing  ?  Or  who  in  anger,  grief  or  fear,  is  actuated  to  the  movements  he 
makes  by  the  pleasures  which  they  yield?  In  all  these  cases  the  movements  are  discharged 
fatally  by  the  vis  a  tergo  which  the  stimulus  exerts  upon  a  nervous  system  framed  to  respond  in 
just  that  way."  He  denies,  also,  that  pleasure  or  pain  cause  our  habitual  acts.  ''All  the  daily 
routine  of  life,  our  dressing  and  undressing,  the  coming  and  going  from  our  work,  or  carrying 
through  of  its  various  operations  is  utterly  without  mental  reference  to  pleasure  and  pain,  except 
under  rarely  realized  conditions As  I  do  not  breathe  for  the  pleasure  of  breathing,  but 

'  OF  THB  t      -^ 

UNIVERSITY  3 


—  22  — 

Dewey  makes  a  clear-cut  statement  of  the  case:    "We  do  not  desire 

the  object  because  it  gives  us  pleasure;  but it  gives  us  pleasure 

because  it  satisfies  the  impulse  which,  in  connection  with  the  idea  of  the 
object,  constitutes  the  desire.  The  child  desires  the  apple,  for  he  has  the 
idea  of  the  apple  as  satisfying  his  impulse.  Only  for  this  reason  does  he 
conceive  it  as  pleasure-giving.  Pleasure  follows  after  the  desire,  rather 
than  determines  it.'"  "  It  is  true,"  he  admits  in  another  passage,  "that 
good  (happiness)  is  the  satisfaction,  evil  the  thwarting  of  desire.  This 
measures  or  defines  happiness  in  terms  of  desire:  desire  is  the  primary 
fact,  happiness  its  fulfilling,  its  completion.  Hedonism  sees  the  con- 
nection, but  reverses  its  direction.  It  takes  happiness  as  a  fixed  fact, 
and  then  tries  to  define  desire  in  terms  of  happiness — as  that  which 
aims  at  it.  It  is  true  that  happiness  is  found  in  the  satisfaction  of  any 
desire,  particularly  in  the  degree  of  its  dominance:  happiness  is  this 
satisfaction  of  desire.  But  hedonism  transforms  this  fact  into  the  notion 
that  somehow  pleasure  is  there  as  an  ideal,  and  its  contemplation  arouses 
desire.  As  Green  says  {^Prolegomena,  p.  i68),  the  hedonists  make  the 
'mistake  of  supposing  that  a  desire  can  be  excited  by  the  anticipation  of 
its  own  satisfaction.'"^  Dewey's  own  explanation  is  made  in  a  succeed- 
ing passage:  "Instead  of  the  image  of  pleasure  exciting  the  action,  the 
activity  already  going  on  sets  up  a  pleasure  by  calling  into  consciousness 
the  conditions  (the  object)  of  its  satisfaction.  There  is  no  image  of  a 
past  pleasure  once  experienced  or  of  a  future  pleasure  to  be  attained; 
there  is  a  present  pleasurable  experience."^  Green  remarks,  trench- 
antly, that  pleasure  "cannot  be  the  exciting  cause  of  the  desire  any 
more  than  the  pleasure  of  satisfying  hunger  can  be  the  exciting  cause  of 
hunger."* 

This  is  perhaps  sufficient  philosophic  authority  for  the  statement 
that  the  poetic  metaphor  can  hardly  have  arisen  from  the  desire  of  the 
maker  to  please  himself  by  ornamenting  his  thought.  The  metaphor, 
once  made,  doubtless  does  give  pleasure  to  its  maker  because  it  fulfills  a 
deep-lying  impulse  or  instinct  of  his.  He  follows  this  instinct  and  gains 
pleasure  therefrom.  Because  the  fulfillment  of  the  impulse  has  been 
pleasurable,  that  is,  the  activity  has  moved  on  unthwarted,  it  has  grown 
stronger  and,  when  next  it  rises,  will  demand  fulfillment  with  greater 
insistence — not  at  all  because  the  maker  of  the  metaphor  thinks  of  and 
desires  the  pleasure  which  is  likely  to  accompany  the  fulfillment  of  the 
impulse;  but  simply  because  this  pleasure,  which  is  the  subjective  read- 
simply  find  that  I  am  breathing,  so  I  do  not  write  for  the  pleasure  of  the  writing,  but  simply 
because  I  have  begun,  and  being  in  a  state  of  intellectual  excitement  which  keeps  venting  itself 
in  that  way,  find  that  I  «/«  writing  still.  Who  will  pretend  that  when  he  idly  fingers  his  knife 
handle  at  the  table,  it  is  for  the  sake  of  any  pleasure  which  it  gives  him,  or  pain  which  he 
thereby  avoids?  We  do  all  these  things  because  at  the  moment  we  cannot  help  it;  our  nervous 
systems  are  so  shaped  that  they  overflow  in  just  that  way. — Psych.,  Briefer  Course,  Ch.  XXIII, 
pp.  44e^7' 

1  Psychology,  pp.  361-2. 

*  Study  of  Ethics,  p.  45.  1 

'  Study  of  Ethics,  pp.  47-8. 

^  Proldgomena,  \i.  iti\.     See  also  pp.   163-177. 


—  23  — 

ing  of  a  condition  of  unchecked  activity,  has  tended  by  the  law  of  habit, 
to  reinforce  the  original  impulse.* 

cr  To  put  the  whole  matter  into  a  sentence:  One  does  not  make  a 
poetic  metaphor  because  he  desires  the  pleasure  which  it  will  give  him, 
but  he  makes  it  because  he  has  to,  gaining  pleasure  therefrom,  though 
he  has  not  directly  aimed  at  it.  Just  why  he  "  has  to"  make  the  meta- 
phor, is  a  question  which  we  shall  discuss  in  connection  with  the  second 
hypothesis. 

Since  most  rhetoricians  of  the  old  school  believed  the  process  of  . 
discourse  to  be  essentially  persuasive,  they  tended  to  emphasize  always 
the  hearer  above  the  speaker.  Their  precepts  were  all  directed  to  pro- 
ducing a  certain  effect  upon  the  hearer.  ,  Do  this  in  order  that  you  may 
conciliate  him;  do  that  to  win  his  confidence;  attempt  by  a  third  device 
to  make  him  think  well  of  himself.  Seldom  was  it  recommended  "Say 
this  because  you  feel  it  to  be  true;  only  express  yourself."^ 

From  this  fact  we  should  expect  to  find  the  rhetorical  conception 
of  metaphor  strongly  tinctured  with  the  prepossession  that  a  desire  to 
produce  some  effect  upon  the  reader  or  hearer  has  been  its  inciting 
cause.  And  this  expectation  is  confirmed  by  a  survey  of  the  principal 
treatises  upon  rhetoric. 

Aristotle  leans  to  the  theory  that  the  maker  of  a  poetic  metaphor  > 
desires  to  give  pleasure  to  his  reader.      One  uses  a  metaphor  because 
this  figure  is  best  adapted  to  impart   instruction  without  requiring  any 
effort  on  the  part  of  the  recipient,  and  "learning  without  trouble,"  we 
are  assured,  ' '  is  naturally  agreeable  to  everybody. "  ^ 

Cicero  seems  to  have  vaguely  in  mind  the  same  answer.  His  first  "t^ 
statement  is  that  the  metaphorical  use  of  words,  originating  in  pov- 
erty of  language,  "became  common  from  the  delight  which  it  afforded."* 
From  this  assertion  we  are  not  sure  whether  the  delight  is  afforded  to 
the  writer  himself  or  to  the  reader,  or,  possibly,  to  both.  Later  state- 
ments, however,  seem  both  to  account  in  part  for  the  delight  and  to 
assign  it,  though  without  definiteness,  to  the  reader.  Metaphors  of  the 
more  conscious  sort  are  said  to  "bring  some  accession  of  splendor  to 
our  language."^      "Such  words  should  be  metaphorically  used  as  may 


1  The  argument  runs  so  far  afield  into  psychology  and  aesthetics,  that  the  proportions  of 
this  chapter  will  hardly  allow  its  detailed  exposition.  The  following  references  contain  the  data 
for  the  conclusions  reached:  Dewey,  Psychology,  ch.  XVIII;  Study  of  Ethics,  ch.  V;  Outlines 
of  Ethics,  pp.  13-42;  The  Theory  of  Emotion,  Psych.  Rev.,  Nov.,  1S94  and  Jan.,  1895. 
James,  Psychology,  Vol,  II,  pp.  549-559,  Briefer  Course,  pp.  444-445.  Green,  Proleg.  Bk. 
Ill,  ch.  I. 

2  In  admitting  this  general  fact,  one  does  not  necessarily  deprecate  it.  Doubtless  it  has 
been  responsible  for  much  of  the  discredit  which  even  now  attaches  to  the  term  rhetoric;  but 
doubtless  also  it  was  necessary  to  over-emphasize  the  hearer  in  the  two-sided  process  of  dis- 
course, lest  in  the  early  development  of  the  art,  he  be  altogether  overwhelmed  under  the  natu- 
rally greater  weight  placed  by  the  speaker  upon  his  own  ideas  and  feelings. 

3  Rhetoric,  Bk.  Ill,  ch.  X. 

*  De  Oratore,  Bk.  Ill,  XXXVIII.     See  Ch.  II,  p.  21. 

*  De  Oratore,  Bk.  Ill,  XXXVIII. 


—  24  — 

tnake  the  subject  clearer,"'  Metaphor  is  employed  "that  the  descrip- 
tion may  be  heightened,"'  or  "that  the  whole  nature  of  any  action  or 
■design  may  be  more  significantly  expressed."^  "Sometimes  also  brevity 
is  the  object  attained  by  metaphor."'  These  scattering  suggestions 
come  to  a  focus  if  we  venture  to  formulate  roughly  Cicero's  explanation 
of  the  motive  for  using  metaphor  as  follows:  Metaphor  is  employed  for 
the  sake  of  giving  delight  to  the  reader  by  heightening  the  writer's 
natural  expression  in  language,  making  it  more  splendid  or  significant, 
clearer  or  briefer.  Just  how  this  heightening  of  the  effect  of  language 
by  means  of  metaphor  becomes  pleasurable  he  explains  at  length;  but 
we  shall  postpone  to  the  following  chapter  a  consideration  of  this  point. 
We  are  at  present  concerned  only  to  know  Cicero's  belief  that  the  names 
of  two  objects  are  interchanged  because  the  writer  knows  that  such  inter- 
change will  produce  a  certain  effect  upon  his  reader. 
^  Quintilian  thinks  that  we  make  the  change  from  a  "proper"  to  a 

metaphorical  word  ' '  either  because  it  is  necessary,  or  because  it  adds  to 

significance,  or because  it  is  more  ornamental."^     "We  say," 

he  asserts,  "that  a  man  is  inflamed  with  anger,  burning  with  desire, 
and  has  fallen  into  error,  with  a  view  to  significance  or  force  of  expres- 
sion   The    expressions    luminousness   of    language,    illustrious 

,K '' J  birth,    .    .    ,  thunderbolts  of  eloquence,  are  used  merely  for  ornament."  ^ 

'"''  And  further  in  the  same  chapter,  he  declares  that  "metaphor  has  been 

invented  for  the  purpose  of  exciting  the  mind,  giving  a  character  to 
things,  and  setting  them  before  the  eye."* 

Hitherto    Quintilian   had  not   told    us  definitely  why  the   speaker 
,  should  wish  to  make   his  language  forcible  and  ornate.      But  from  the 

last   passage   cited  we   may  conclude  that  the  ultimate  end  is  its  effect 
upon  the  mind  of  the  reader.      Quintilian,  then,  joins  Cicero  and  Aris- 
totle in  affirming  the  writer's  anticipation  of  the  effect  of  his  figure  upon 
the  reader  as  the  motive  of  his  employment  of  it.* 
X  Campbell^  treats   metaphor   as  a   means  to  vivacity  of  language, 

that  is,  to  producing  a  strong  impression  upon  the  reader.  Whately's 
idea  of  the  cause  of  metaphor  is  sufficiently  evident  from  his 
famous  recommendation  that  metaphor  be  used  rather  than  simile 
wherever  possible,  ' '  because  all  men  are  more  gratified  at  catching  the 
resemblance  for  themselves,  than  at  having  it  pointed  out  to  them."' 
The  writer,  it  is  assumed,  desires  to  produce  upon  the  reader  a  pleasur- 

iDe  Oratore,  Bk.  Ill,  XXXIX. 
^Institutes,  Bk.  VIII,  Ch.  VI,  §4. 
»/«j/i7m/^^,  Bk.  VIII,  Ch.  VI,  §  7. 

♦§I9- 

'Cf.  Puttenham's  three  reasons  for  using  metaphor:  Arte  of  English  Poesie,  Lib.  Ill,  XVI: 

1.  "  Necessitie,  or  want  of  a  better  word." 

2.  *'  For  pleasure  and  ornament  of  our  speech,  as  thus  in  an  epitaph  of  our  own 

making 

•Whom  virtue  rerde,  envy  hath  overthrown 
And  lodged  full  low,  under  this  marble  stone.' 

3.  "To  enforce  a  sense  and  make  the  word  more  significative." 
^Philos.  ofRket.,  Bk.  Ill,  Ch.  I. 

^Elements  0/ Rhetoric,  Pt.  Ill,  Ch.  II,  §  3. 


f  UNIVERSITY 

—  25  — 

able  effect.  This  being  granted,  it  is  necessary  only  to  inform  him  that 
metaphor  is  more  likely  to  produce  this  effect  than  simile,  to  induce  his 
choice  of  the  former,  "wherever  possible,"  this  saving  clause  perhaps 
meaning  wherever  fidelity  to  the  writer's  own  self-expression  does  not 
forbid. 

Adams  says  that  figurative  language  which  originated  from  necessity 
was  "afterward  greatly  multiplied  by  the  charm  which  the  discovery 
and  display  of  ...  .  analogies  possess  over  the  minds  of  men,'"  not 
distinguishing  between  the  pleasure  of  the  writer  and  that  of  the  reader. 

Mr.  Arlo  Bates  declares  explicitly:  "The  object  of  using  figures  is 
to  add  clearness,  or  force  or  elegance — or  all  of  these — to  the  presenta- 
tion of  an  idea.  Constantly  it  happens  that,  by  declaring  that  an 
unknown  thing  is  like  some  known  thing,  the  writer  enables  the  reader 

to  form  an  idea  of  it  as  it  is Figures  are  used  to  increase  the 

lucidity  of  style.  "^ 

And  E.  E.  Hale,  Jr.,  after  having  stated  that  the  simple  conduces  vi- 
to  clearness  and  the  metaphor  to  an  effect  of  brilliancy  and  dash,  exhorts 
the  writer  to  use  these  figures  with  his  eyes  open.      "  You  should  be  able 
to  know,"  he  says,   "when  you  are  writing,  what  you  are  trying  to  ac- 
complish.     If  you  are  writing  some   scholarly  paper,    you  want   to   be 

clear If  you  are  telling  a  story, you   want   to   be 

brilliant,  lively,  vivacious.  You  must  be  able  to  tell  for  yourself  what 
is  the  chief  aim  you  have  in  mind,  and  you  should  now  have  some  idea  i 
of  one  of  the  means. by  which  it  may  be  attained."^  Mr.  G.  R.  Car- 
penter's statement  is  no  less  decisive:  "A  metaphor,  as  you  no  doubt 
know,  is  calling  one  thing  by  the  name  of  another,  for  the  sake  of  leav- 
ing on  the  reader's  mind  a  more  vivid  or  picturesque  impression."* 

The  utterances  last  cited  imply  with  some  distinctness  the  theory 
that  a  writer  makes  metaphor  for  the  sake  of  producing  a  certain  effect 
upon  the  reader.  Comparatively  few,  however,  of  the  later  rhetoricians 
make  any  definite  statements  as  to  the  motive  in  the  writer's  mind  which 
incites  to  the  making  of  a  metaphor.  We  shall  find,  nevertheless,  that 
almost  all  of  them  justify  their  practical  precepts,  (such  as  that  in  a  met- 
aphor the  resemblance  should  be  neither  too  obvious,  nor  too  obscure, 
that  no  metaphor  should  be  pushed  too  far  and  that  none  should  be 
mixed  with  plain  statement),  by  the  fact  that  conformity  with  these  prin- 
ciples gives  the  reader  pleasure,  or,  more  generally,  that  it  produces 
upon  him  the  effect  desired  by  the  writer.* 

^  Lectures  on  Rhetoric  and  Oratory,  Lect.  XXX. 

2  Talks  on  Writing  English,  Ch.  Vn. 

'  Constructive  Rhetoric,  p.  267. 

^Exercises  in  Rhetoric,  Adv.  Course,  2d  Ed.,  Ch.  XII,  p.  Igg. 

5  A.  S.  Hill  remarks  of  tropes  in  general,  that  they,  "  should  be  fresh  enough  to  give  the 
reader  a  pleasant  surprise,  but  not  so  strange  as  to  shock  him." — Prins.  of  Rhet., 
Ed.  1896,  p.  131.  DeMille  objects  to  hackneyed  metaphors,  because,  ''when  the  resem- 
blance is  too  familiar,  the  image  has  no  effect;'"  to  strained  metaphors  because  "when 
the  resemblance  is  remote,  it  is  not  readily  understood  or  appreciated." — Elements  of  Rhetoric, 
pp.  115-116.  See  also  Genung,  Pract.  Rhet.,  ed.  1894,  pp.  92-93;  Gummere,  Handbook  of 
Poetics,  p.  951;  J.  G.  R.  McElroy,  Structure  of  English  Prose,  pp.  243-246;  J.  M.  Hart,  Hand- 
hook  of  English  Composition,  pp.  188-191;  Barrett  Wendell,  English  Composition,  pp.  250-261. 


—  26  — 

It  may,  perhaps,  be  urged  that  the  effect  of  the  metaphor  upon  the 
hearer  is  regarded  by  the  rhetoricians  rather  as  a  test  for  the  metaphor, 
after  it  has  been  made,  than  as  a  statement  of  the  end  aimed  at  in  mak- 
ing it.  But  it  must  be  remembered  that  a  test  is  meaningless  except  it 
refer,  directly  or  indirectly,  to  the  end  for  which  the  thing  tested  has 
been  designed.  Ultimate  judgment  must  always  be  based  upon  the 
answer  to  the  question,  "Does  this  thing  fulfill  the  purpose  of  its  crea- 
tion.-'" Such  a  test  the  rhetoricians  are  accustomed  to  apply  to  the 
metaphor  when  they  say,  "If  it  fails  to  produce  a  certain  effect  upon 
the  reader,  it  is  worthless.  Discard  it."  The  metaphor  is  designed,  so 
these  practical  precepts  may  fairly  be  interpreted,  to  make  the  reader 
see  ,the  point  more  clearly  than  he  could  otherwise  do,  to  give  him  a 
more  vivid  or  forcible  conception  of  the  object  presented,  to  stimulate 
his  mind, — in  brief,  to  produce  upon  him  a  certain  effect.  We  may, 
then,  conclude,  both  from  the  stated  theories  of  the  writers  upon  rhe- 
toric, and  from  the  implications  lying  in  their  practical  precepts,  that 
they,  as  a  class,  are  fairly  committed  to  the  theory  that  a  metaphor  is 
made  for  the  sake  of  inducing  a  certain  effect  upon  the  mind  of  the 
reader.  * 

-  '  We  are  asked  to  suppose  that  any  writer  who  uses  a  figure  of 
speech  does  so  with  a  definite  end  in  view,  that  of  making  the  expression 
of  his  ideas  more  pleasurable^  to  the  reader  than  it  could  be  if  plainly 

'  One  apparent  exception  to  this  statement  should  be  noted.  Mr.  L.  A.  Sherman,  in  his 
Analytics  of  Literature^  defines  a  metaphor  as  "seeing  one  thing  spiritually  identical  with 
another  thing,"  (notes,  p.  399)  and  states  explicitly  that  the  writer  in  a  particular  case  "saw 
mentally  this  same  identity,  and  said  or  wrote  the  metaphor  because  he  experienced  it  thus 
vividly  in  his  mind."  (p.  .62.)  Having  made  this  most  interesting  statement,  however,  he  at 
once  proceeds  to  discredit  it,  by  referring  casually  to  metaphor  as  "the  assignment  of  two 
objects  to  a  new  class  by  using  it  (resemblance)  as  the  basis  of  classification"  (p.  62)  and  hinting 
pretty  broadly  that  the  fact  that  this  operation  is  "especially  agreeable  to  the  ego"  (p.  62) 
bears  a  casual  relation  to  the  production  of  the  metaphor.  Here  are  certainly  two  widely  differ 
ent  statements.  The  one  shows  the  writer  as  having  united  two  perfectly  distinct  objects  into  a 
single  class  because  he  wished  the  pleasure  that  the  process  would  secure  to  him.  The  other 
makes  the  writer  express  directly  his  own  vision  of  the  identity  of  two  objects.  Sherman  first 
adopts  the  latter  hypothesis.  According  to  this,  the  writer  sies,  at  the  height  of  the 
metaphor-process,  not  two  objects  at  all,  but  one.  Yet  the  one  either  had  been  two  before 
this  supreme  moment  of  the  writer's  vision,  or  it  became  two  after  that  moment  had  passed. 
Which  belief  does  Sherman  hold?  His  treatment  of  the  subject  clearly  depends  upon 
his  faith  in  the  first.  "In  metaphor  it  (the  mind)  perceives  two  objects,  each  with  equal 
vividness,  spiritually  identified."  (p.  399.)  There  were  two  objects.  They  have  been  fused 
into  one.  The  process  by  which  this  fusion  takes  place  now  becomes  the  difficulty,  and  forces 
Sherman  into  a  tacit  acceptance  of  the  hypothesis  which  regards  two  objects  as  being  united 
in  a  single  class  by  virtue  of  a  resemblance  existing  between  them,  and,  for  the  sake  of  giving 
pleasure  to  the  author  of  the  union.  If  Sherman  had  seen  that  psychologically  the  writer's 
vision  must  be  single  before  it  can  be  dual,  he  would  not  have  predicated  the  existence 
of  the  two  objects  in  consciousness  as  antecedent  to  the  presence  of  the  one,  or  their  identity, 
and  thus  would  not  have  been  compelled  to  close  up  by  artificial  means  a  gap  that  did  not 
actually  exist.  It  may,  then,  be  affirmed,  that  while  Mr.  Sherman  refuses,  at  first  sight,  to  be 
classified  with  the  rhetoricians  in  his  understanding  of  the  metaphor-process,  in  last  analysis 
he  is  at  one  with  them. 

*I  include,  for  the  present,  under  this  term  all  the  cognate  expressions,  "forcible,"  "viva- 
cious," "economical,"  "stimulating,"  etc.  The  argument  will  attempt  to  disprove  the  theory 
that  a  metaphor  is  made  for  the  sake  of  producing  an  effect  upon  the  reader,  pleasure  standing 
as  the  representative  of  all  these  effects. 


—  27  — 

expressed.  Suppose,  for  instance,  that  the  writer  wishes  to  speak  of 
the  sun.  He  might  say  "sun"  without  further  ado,  but  that  he  desires 
to  gain  for  his  readers  the  pleasant  sensation  which  he  knows  will  result 
from  the  simple  device  of  calling  one  thing  by  the  name  of  another. 
Therefore  he  decides  to  call  the  sun  something  else — but  what  else.^ 
Here,  as  in  the  case  of  the  radical  metaphor,  the  fact  of  resemblance  is 
the  deus  ex  machina.  The  writer  may  be  supposed  to  follow  out  in 
every  direction  from  the  object  "sun"  the  radiating  lines  of  its  qualities 
or  characteristics  until  one  of  these  shall  haply  lead  him  to  an  object 
possessing  the  same  quality  or  characteristic  and  thus  connected  with 
the  original  object,  sun.  Say,  for  instance,  that  he  has  in  this  way  fol- 
lowed the  line  of  the  quality  of  roundness  out  from  the  round  sun  until 
he  reached  the  round  object  ball.  He  can  now  call  the  sun  a  golden 
ball  with  perfect  assurance  that  the  reader  cannot  fail  to  receive  there- 
from the  pleasure  which  has  been  designed  for  him. 

It  is  difficult  to  avoid  the  ironical  tone  in  discussing  this  explana- 
tion. It  makes  the  act  of  metaphor  so  mechanical,  so  crude,  so  essen- 
tially cheap  and  tawdry  that  the  sensitive  reader  of  literature  can  hardly 
suffer  serious  consideration  of  its  truthfulness.  He  revolts  instinctively 
from  the  notion  that  Shakespeare,  for  instance,  deliberately  set  about 
comparing  the  storm-whitened  waves  of  the  ocean  to  a  culinary  com- 
pound made  foamy  in  the  process  of  "rising,"  in  order  that  he  might 
tickle  his  reader's  fancy  by  the  phrase  "the  yesty  waves. " '  Such  an 
explanation  virtually  requires  that  Shakespeare,  having  one  element  in 
the  metaphor — the  storm-whitened  sea — distinctly  in  mind,  should  con- 
sciously lay  about  him  for  an  object  which  might  serve  as  the  other 
element.  One  must  imagine  him  like  the  pedantic  King  Richard  II, 
always  studying  how  he  might  compare  one  thing  to  another.  Or  one 
must  fancy  the  virile  dramatist  in  the  situation  of  a  practiced  conceit- 
monger,  Thomas  Sheridan,  who  thus  owns  to  his  poetic  method: 

"I  often  tryed  in  vain  to  find 
A  simile  for  womankind, 
A  simile  I  mean  to  fit  'em, 
In  every  circumstance  to  hit  'em. 
Through  every  beast  and  bird  I  went, 
I  ransacked  every  element; 
And  after  peeping  through  all  nature. 
To  find  so  whimsical  a  creature, 
A  cloud  presented  to  my  view, 
And  strait  this  parable  I  drew."' 

We  are  not  surprised  to  learn  that  certain  metaphors  in  our  less 
naive  and  spontaneous  poetry  had  their  rise  in  such  a  process  as  this. 
Their  flavor  suggests  an  origin  no  less  mechanical.  And  few  are  the 
happy  teachers  of  English  composition  who  have  not  thus  explained  to 

1  Macbeth^  IV,  53. 

"^New  Simile  for  the  Ladies.      The  Poetical  Works  of  Jonathan  Swift,  V6l.  Ill,  Aldine  Ed.. 


—  28  — 

themselves  the  existence  of  many  a  metaphor  in  student  essays.*  The 
boy  who  speaks  of  Hawthorne  as  "the  queen-bee  in  American  Htera- 
ture,"  and  the  girl  who  characterizes  reading  as  "the  indispensable 
nectar  of  existence  "  present  us  no  insoluble  problem  as  to  the  metaphori- 
cal process  which  has  gone  on  in  their  minds.  Clearly  it  was  somewhat 
like  this:  A  figure  is  necessary  to  any  well-regulated  composition. 
Therefore  let  us  have  a  figure.  Since  we  are  writing  about  Hawthorne, 
we   may  as  well  say  that  Hawthorne  was  something  besides  what  he 

really  was.      Hawthorne  was Hawthorne  was What 

was  Hawthorne,  anyhow.^  He  was  awfully  important  in  American  liter- 
ature, the  teacher  said.  Well,  what  else  is  important  to  something.? 
Perhaps  a  bee  wings  across  the  field  of  vision  just  at  the  moment  of 
despair  and  is  frantically  clutched  at  by  the  despairing  mind.  Oh  I 
guess  Hawthorne  was  the  queen-bee  in  American  literature.  And  the 
successful  author  beams  with  satisfaction  over  the  way  that  expression 
will  "hit"  the  teacher. 

Not  only,  however,  does  the  struggling  student  of  composition  thus 
manufacture  his  figures;  but  often  the  newspaper  writer  and  compounder 
of  dilute  fiction  seem  to  be  conversant  with  the  metaphor-recipe.  Mr. 
A.  S.  Hill's  incomparable  illustrations,^  "hair  shot  through  with  sunset 
spikes  of  yellow  light,"  "and  lips  with  musical  curves"  are  in  point. 

Under  the  class  of  manufactured  articles  must  also  fall  the  follow- 
ing from  Am^lie  Rives:  "The  stars  had  looked  like  great  drops  of  trem- 
bling quicksilver,  just  ready  to  splash  from  the  inverted  pewter  spoon  of 
the  sky."*  We  may  be  quite  as  certain  as  internal  evidence  can  render 
us  that  the  writer  of  this  astonishing  figure,  moved  by  a  keen  desire  to 
make  a  metaphor,  looked  wildly  about  her  for  some  like  object  to  which 
she  could  compare  the  stars  and  the  sky  of  which  she  wished  to  speak. 
At  this  particular  hour  in  the  morning  the  stars  resembled  silver  in  color; 
but  this  comparison  was  far  too  commonplace,  and  quicksilver  was 
accordingly  substituted  as  an  equivalent.  The  sky  was  a  dull,  hard- 
looking  gray.  The  use  of  quicksilver  for  the  stars  suggested  pewter  for 
the  sky:  and  the  shape  of  the  aerial  dome  furnished  another  analogy, 
that  of  a  pewter  spoon  inverted.  Nothing  could  be  neater  than  this 
process;  and  nothing  surer  invariably  to  furnish  a  metaphor  on  demand. 

1  Such  efforts  as  the  following  troop  at  once  to  mind:  Margaret  and  Luke  are  reported  as 
having  at  their  first  meeting  seen  "the  juncture  of  two  unfathomable  revelations  ....  descend 
upon  them  like  the  downward  flight  of  a  soaring  thing.  Margaret  felt  the  mist  of  a  sudden 
indistinctness  hurl  her  through  infinite  space,  and  a  great  gong  seemed  to  beat  a  muffled  distance 
of  time  and  space  across  Luke's  forehead." 

•'Liberty,  powerful,  just  and  equal,  stands-  as  the  beacon  light  for  this  country,  whose 
foundations  were  laid  and  cemented  on  the  blood  of  the  patriots  who  died  in  defense  of  it." 

"Since  that  moment  life  has  been  a  cesspool  of  malignity;  an  empty  dream;  a  hollow 
mockery  and  a  sham,  totally  nnknown  to  the  smiling  face  of  pleasure,  and  only  goaded  along  its 
labyrinthian  highway  to  its  everlasting  doom,  by  the  most  despicable  spirit  of  yengeance, 
despondency  and  immutable  woe." 

*  Our  English^  pp.  122-3. 

•  The  Story  of  a  Heart ,  Am^lie  Rives.     Cosmopolitan,  July,  1897,  p.  331. 


—  29  — 

Swinburne  has  evidently  employed  such  a  device  in  his  stanza: 

"  Now  the  morning,  faintlier  risen, 

Seems  no  God  come  forth  of  prison, 
But  a  bird  of  plume-plucked  wing 
Pale  with  thoughts  of  evening."' 

Such  a  metaphor  as  this  can  hardly  have  been  produced  otherwise 
than  by  holding  before  the  writer's  consciousness  the  thought  of  the  pale 
dawn  and  casting  about  for  an  object  which  might  in  some  particular 
resemble  it.  The  traditional  God  of  day  is  discarded  because  too  robust. 
The  morning  has  been  shorn  of  its  usual  glories,  so  Swinburne  says  it 
seems  a  plucked  bird.  But  this  comparison  does  not  convey  a  suffi- 
ciently vivid  idea  of  the  pallor  of  the  dawn,  so  that  the  statement  must 
be  added  that  the  bird  is  "  pale  with  thoughts  of  evening." 

The  figures  cited  are  perhaps  sufficiently  absurd  to  demonstrate  vj 
conclusively  the  essential  difference  between  "  those  metaphors  which  rise 
glowing  from  the  heart,  and  those  cold  conceits  which  are  engendered  in 
the  fancy.  "^  We  feel  acutely  that  there  is  a  real  division  here;  that  those 
metaphors  which  we  can  conceive  to  have  been  manufactured  by  a  con- 
scious effort  of  the  mind  directed  to  the  recognized  end  of  making  a 
figure,  for  the  sake,  ultimately,  of  pleasing  the  reader,'  inevitably  fall 
into  a  class  quite  distinct  from  those  fresh  and  vital  figures  which  need 
no  external  witness  to  their  spontaneous  origin. 

For  the  former  class  of  metaphors  we  should  not  hesitate  to  adopt -f 
the  hypothesis  that  they  have  come  into  being  as  the  result  of  the 
writer's  effort  to  produce  a  certain  effect  upon  the  reader.  But  we 
shrink  instinctively  from  this  t-heory  as  applied  to  the  latter  species — the 
genuine  poetic  metaphor.  We  feel  not  only  that  it  cannot  account  for 
these  metaphors,  but  that  it  ought  not  to  do  so.  Our  half-conscious 
theories  of  literary  art  attribute  to  it  a  quality  far  less  artificial — not  to 
say  meretricious — than  that  which  characterizes  the  process  of  manu- 
facturing a  metaphor  in  the  manner  described.  We  feel  assured  that  to 
substitute  one  word  for  another  in  order  to  produce  a  pleasant  titillation 
of  the  reader's  fancy  is  a  shabby  gallery-play,  beneath  the  dignity  of  the 
real  artist. 

It  is  true  that  this  is  only  a  feeling,  though  a  feeling  so  universal 
among  people  of  literary    sensibility  that  it   might   almost    upon    that 
ground   be  allowed  in  evidence.      But  if  we  trace  this  intuitional  judg-  if- 
ment  to  its  source,  we  shall  perhaps  find  that  it  roots  in  a  philosophy  of  \     ^ 
the  literary  process  not  the  less  true  because  so  often  unconscious.      For  y 
the  widespread  feeling  that  metaphors  made  to  produce  a  certain  effect  / 

1  Pastiche,  Poems  and  Ballads,  Second  Series. 

2  Oliver  Goldsmith,  Essay  on  the  Use  of  Metaphors.  Cf .  Emerson's  distinction  between 
imagination  and  fancy  in  the  essay  Poetry  and  Imagination.  "Fancy  is  a  willful,  imagina- 
tion a  spontaneous  action." 

*  This  process  will  be  farther  analyzed  under  the  head  of  the  Pathology  of  Metaphor, 
Ch.  V. 


—  30  — 

upon  the  reader  fall  below  the  level  of  real  art,  we  find  both  source  and 
justification  in  that  philosophy  of  the  literary  process  which  regards  it  as 
having  equal  reference  to  two  factors,  the  writer  and  the  reader.  This 
theory  is  that  known  as  the  communication  theory  of  discourse,  which 
has,  in  the  later  rhetorical  systems,  largely  superseded  the  one-sided 
theories  of  discourse  as  persuasion  and.  as  self-expression.  The  theory 
that  discourse  is  self-expression  has  reference  only  to  the  speaker;  the 
hypothesis  that  it  is  persuasion  makes  the  hearer  all-important.  When 
discourse  is  regarded  as  communication  the  two  factors  in  the  process 
are  equally  emphasized.  In  order  that  the  writer's  vision  be  communi- 
cated to  the  reader's  eye,  the  one  factor  is  as  necessary  as  the  other. 
Not  the  reader  alone  is  concerned,  nor  yet  the  writer,  but  both  equally 
have  a  part  in  the  literary  process.  ,  According  to  this  .standard  a  piece 
of  writing  which  seeks  only  to  lay  bare  the  writer's  thought,  with  no 
reference  at  all  to  the  capacity  or  interests  of  the  reader,  is  condemned 
as  bad  art;  and  no  less  is  the  work  found  wanting  which  looks  only  to 
its  effect  upon  the  reader,  little  caring  to  be  true  to  the  vision  of  him 
who  writes.  And  of  this  last  sort  must  be  the  metaphor  which  is  made 
for  the  sake  of  pleasing  the  reader,  if  no  real  sight  of  the  writer  lies 
behind. 

We  find  justification,  then,  in  this  conception  of  the  normal  literary 
process,  for  the  instinctive  feeling  that  such  mechanical  construction  of 
the  metaphor  as  is  implied  in  the  rhetorical  explanation  of  its  origin  is 
bad  art,  because  it  leaves  out  of  account  one  of  the  prime  factors  in  the 
process  of  discourse.  The  dilemma  then  confronts  us.  Either  we  must 
accept  the  rhetorical  explanation  of  the  origin  of  metaphor,  and  bow  to 
the  conclusion  that  this  figure  lies  outside  the  field  of  legitimate  art;  or 
we  must  deny  the  rhetorical  explanation  and  hold  to  our  instinctive  faith 
in  the  artistic  justification  for  a  good  metaphor. 

The  first  of  these  alternatives  has  found  the  widest  acceptance. 
Acquiescing  in  the  theory  of  rhetoric  that  the  metaphor  is  an  expression 
not  necessarily  of  the  speaker's  own  vision  of  things,  but  of  his  desire  to 
make  other  people  see  them  in  a  certain  way,  the  "practical  man"  is 
straightway  seized  with  a  distrust  of  the  figure,  amounting  almost  to 
fear.  He  regards  metaphors  much  as  the  old  saints  regarded  women — 
as  charmjng  snares,  in  which  he  may  too  easily  be  entangled.  Tell  a 
jury  that  your  opponent's  most  telling  argument  is  "  only  a  beautiful 
metaphor,"  and  you  have  at  once  wholly  discredited  it.  You  have  by 
this  means  conveyed  to  the  jury  with  more  or  less  distinctness  the  idea 
that  your  opponent  has  been  trying  to  cheat  them;  that,  without  seeing 
the  matter  in  that  light  himself,  he  has  deliberately  set  out  to  make  them 
see  it  as  he  wished;  in  a  word,  to  produce  a  certain  effect  upon  them 
for  his  own  ends. 

Now  this  metaphoraphobia,  if  the  term  may  be  allowed,  is  only  the 
logical  consequence  of  the  faith  that  metaphor  arises  from  the  desire  of 
the  writer  to  produce  a  certain  effect  upon  the  reader.  We  have  a  right 
to  suppose  that  language  will  convey  to  us  the  speaker's  thought,  modi- 


—  31  — 

fied  unconsciously  perhaps  by  the  speaker's  knowledge  of  the  hearer's 
capacities  and  predictions,  but  not  wholly  determined  by  them.    When, 
however,  we  have  learned  to  suspect  any  form  of  speech  of  occasionally 
mis-representing  the  thought  it  assumes  to  represent,    we    are    bound 
to    fear  it  as  treacherous   and   misleading,    and  when   we   have   finally 
become  assured  that  this  form  of  speech  has   no    necessary   reference 
to    the    speaker's  thought,    we    can  afford    to   scorn  it.      Having    once 
determined    its    falsity,     it    can    never    deceive   us    again.      We    can 
safely  snap  our   fingers    at  it   and  devote  ourselves  to    warning  other 
people    against    its   deceptions.      This    last    attitude    is,    as    might     be 
expected,    that    of    the    more  vigorous  and    independent    of   straight- 
forward minds.      Philosophers,  logicians  and  scientific  men,  it  has  often 
been  observed,  exhibit  a  healthy  scorn  for   metaphor,  evidently  regard- 
ing it  in  the  light  of  a  meretricious  device,  a  crude  overreaching  artifice, 
unworthy  of  the  simplicity  of  truth.      Locke  seems  to  voice  the  opinions  of  W--         gfp\ 
this  class,  when  he  says:  "  If  we  would  speak  of  things  as  they  are,  we     ^^^      (^ 
must  allow  that  all  the  art  of  rhetoric,  besides   order  and  clearness,  all   J^  A<-^^^ 
the  artificial  and  figurative  application  of  words  eloquence  hath  invented,  rrJiMf^ , 
are  for  nothing  else  but   to  insinuate   wrong  ideas,  move  the  passions,    „Vt^*^  ) 
and  thereby  mislead  the  judgment,  and  so  indeed  are  perfect  cheats,  and  ,       ^^^  ^ 
therefore,   however  laudable  or  allowable  oratory  may  render  them   in       »  -^  ^tf 
harangues   and  popular   addresses,   they  are  certainly,  in  all  discourses '''*^'^^ 
that  pretend  to  inform   or  instruct,    wholly  to  be  avoided;   and  where '^       ,,    A 
truth  and  knowledge  are  concerned,  cannot  but  be  thought  a  great  fault, '^■^*'     ,^,,   * 
either  of  the  language  or  person  that  makes  use  of  them."*  -r^'^'li   ^^ 

This  is  a  point  of  view  wholly  self-consistent,  if  one  hold  with  tfie    i^*^^    ^^ 
faith  that  metaphor  arises  from  the  writer's  desire  to  affect  his  reader  in   \^     ^^ 
a  certain  predetermined  fashion.      One  who  shrinks  from  this  doctrine*'^  \  ^^^* 
may,  however,   seek   another  explanation   of  the  genesis   of  metaphor.  lyM*'^,^}^ 
And  this  search  shall   be   our   next   task.      Before  entering  upon  it,  we  f^ 
may,  however,  note  a  further  reason  for  discrediting  the   accepted   rhe- 
torical theory,  in  that  it  makes  no   provision   for  the   Arst  poetic  meta- 
phor.     This  surely  cannot  be  explained  as  the  product  of  a  desire  for  the 
reader's   pleasure;   for  the  writer  had  then  no  assurance,  either  from  his 
own  experience  or  observation,  that   pleasure  would  result  to  the  reader 
from  the  device  of  substituting  one  word  for  another.      We   are   com- 
pelle'd  to  one  of  two  explanations.      Perhaps  the  writer  stumbled   upon 
the  device.      He  "just  happened"  by  a  lucky  accident  to  substitute  one 
word  for  another;  and  the  pleasure  resulting  from  it  to  the  reader  either 
encouraged  the  writer  to  make  another  metaphor  on  purpose  to   confer 
this  pleasure,  or  incited  the  reader  to  make  one  himself  for  another  per- 
son's delight.      But  granting  this  to  be  a  possible  explanation,  the  "ac- 
cident "  has  still  to  be  explained.      There  are  psychological  laws  govern- 
ing the  metathesis  of  letters  in  rapid  writing;  there  is  always  some  rea- 

^Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding^  Bk.  Ill,  Ch.  X,  §  34:  "Figurative  speech  also  an 
abuse  of  language."  I  find  in  Blackwood  18:  719  the  statement,  "  It  is  said  to  have  been  a 
b'>ast  of  Swift,  or  his  friends,  that  '  he  had  hardly  a  metaphor  in  all  his  works.'  " 


«a2— 

son  why  one  mis-speaks.*  ?i. '  -.  .'did  it  happen  that  this  original  maker 
substituted  one  word  for  another  ?  The  fact  that  a  certain  resemblance 
or  analogy  existed  between  the  two  objects  whose  names  were  con- 
cerned may  have  made  the  substitution  possible.  But  we  cannot  sup- 
pose an  explicit  recognition  of  this  resemblance  on  the  part  of  the  maker 
of  the  metaphor;  for,  as  soon  as  we  do  this,  we  are  forced  to  assign  a 
motive  that  led  to  the  transfer;  and  we  have  promised  that  no  motive 
existed.  The  maker  of  the  metaphor  "just  happened"  to  substitute 
one  name  for  another.  In  his  haste  he  mis-spoke.  As  in  the  case  of 
the  radical  metaphor,  the  resemblance  existed  but  was  not  explicitly 
perceived  by  the  speaker.  Could  it  then  have  been  a  factor  in  the  sub- 
stitution which  took  place  ?  Undoubtedly  it  could,  precisely  as  with  the 
radical  metaphor,  where  that  which  is  later  perceived  as  resemblance 
or  analogy  is,  at  the  time  of  making  the  metaphor,  seen  but  vaguely  as 
complete  identity  between  the  two  objects  concerned  in  the  figure.  We 
can  conceive  that  out  of  a  primitive  sensation  of  something  fluffy  white 
might  spring  into  separate  existence  the  two  objects  ' '  cloud  "  and  ' '  snow. " 
At  the  moment  when  the  two  were  disentangling  themselves  from  the 
first  homogeneity,  our  metaphor-maker  might  express  the  starting  differ- 
entiation by  saying  "  snow  "  as  he  pointed  to  the  clouds.  When  he  had 
done  so,  doubtless  he  would  feel  a  certain  pleasure  in  the  unity  of  which 
he  was  dimly  conscious  under  the  variety,  and  the  impulse  to  a  second 
metaphor-making  would  thus  be  strengthened.  And  from  this  point  the 
story  is  easily  told.  But  this  explanation  practically  identifies  the 
source  of  poetic  with  that  of  radical  metaphor — in  the  speaker's  homo- 
geneous consciousness  of  a  primitive  sensation,  out  of  which  its  con- 
stituent elements  later  separate  themselves. 

So  much  for  the  first  explanation  of  the  ultimate  origin  of  poetic 
metaphor.  The  second,  we  shall  see,  brings  us  to  this  same  point.  It 
is  that  this  first  maker  of  the  poetic  metaphor  was  led  to  the  making 
because  he  had  noticed  the  pleasurable  effect  consequent  upon  his  per- 
ception of  the  radical  metaphor  and  resolved  to  create  enjoyment  for 
himself  or  for  another  person  by  the  same  method,  consciously  employed. 
Now  it  is  quite  unlikely,  to  say  the  least,  that  the  maker  of  the  first 
poetic  metaphor  had  already  arrived  at  a  stage  of  reflection  so  advanced 
that  he  could  recognize  his  pleasure  in  the  radical  metaphor,  analyze  its 
sources,  and  determine  to  use  the  same  means  to  attain  a  like  enjoy- 
ment. "Poetic  metaphor"  appeared  in  ages  far  too  unsophisticate 
for  such  subtle  ratiocination.  But  whether  we  grant  or  deny  the 
possibility  of  this  explanation,  we  are  with  equal  promptness  brought 
to  the  source  of  the  radical  metaphor  as  the  ultimate  spring  also  of  the 
poetic. 

We  are,  then,  confronted  at  once  by  the  question,  "If  the  ultimate, 
why  may  not  also  the  proximate  source  of  the  poetic  metaphor  be  iden- 

'  There  is  a  recent  German  treatise  on  this  subject:  Versprechen  und  Verlesen,  by  Ru- 
dolf Meringer  and  Karl  Mayer,  Stuttgart,  1895. 


Itica  with  that  of  the  radical  metaphoi  ?  1 5  it  not  possible  that  the 
same  psychological  process  of  growing  differentiation  in  perception  may 
lie  at  the  root  of  both  phenomena  ?"  Let  us  face  this  question  fairly. 
We  have  seen  that  the  radical  metaphor  is  the  single  expression  of  an 
undeveloped  perception  which  later  divides  into  its  elements,  the  division 
bringing  to  light  an  incongruity  between  the  dual  character  of  the  devel- 
oped perception  and  the  simplicity  of  the  phrase  which  once  represented 
it.  Now  this  process  by  which  perception  develops  from  a  vague  unity 
into  a  more  clearly  defined  duality  or  complexity  is  asserted  by  psycholo- 
gists to  be  typical  and  universal.  It  must,  then,  go  on  in  the  modern  as 
well  as  in  the  primitive  consciousness.  Civilization  can  only  shorten  the 
process,  not  do  away  with  it.  The  savage  who  spoke  of  a  nation  that  came 
"from  so  far  off  as  the  sun  slept 'V  perhaps  never  in  his  life-time  learned 
to  distinguish  clearly  between  the  action  of  a  man  in  withdrawing  to 
sleep,  and  that  of  the  sun  in  disappearing  for  the  night.  The  child  in  a 
civilized  nation,  however,  completes  the  process  in  a  far  shorter  time. 
The  lamp  globe  is  a  moon  to  him  at  first.  He  sees,  both  when  he  looks 
at  the  moon  and  when  he  looks  at  the  globe,  exactly  the  same  thing,  so 
far  as  his  undeveloped  perceptive  powers  can  tell  him.  But  not  many 
months  pass  before  the  two  have  successfully  separated  themselves,  and 
the  one  can  no  longer  be  mistaken  for  the  other.  In  the  case  of  the 
adult  civilized  man,  the  process  is  still  more  rapid.  Although  for  the  flash 
of  a  second  he  may  see  a  curled  stick  as  a  snake,  he  cannot  do  so  for  long. 
The  perception  rapidly  differentiates  until  the  two  elements,  the  stick 
and  the  snake,  become  perfectly  distinct  in  his  consciousness.  The 
whole  development  of  the  perception  from  homogeneity  to  heterogeneity, 
to  use  the  scientific  phrase,  may,  in  this  instance,  occupy  but  the  frac- 
tion of  a  second,  instead  of  the  years  or  ages  needed  for  the  slower- 
moving  mind  of  the  savage,  and  the  months  required  by  the  undeveloped 
intelligence  of  the  child.  But  in  all  these  cases  the  process  is  the  same. 
The  sophisticated  modern,  when  he  gives  utterance  to  perception  before 
it  has  developed  out  of  the  homogeneous  stage,  is  making  a  radical  met- 
aphor just  as  truly  as  does  the  savage  or  the  child.  No  two  things  are 
concerned  in  his  thought,  but  only  one.  There  is,  in  the  ordinary  sense 
of  the  word,  no  metaphor.  The  speaker  has  simply  represented  in  words 
his  own  undifferentiate  consciousness. 

But  so  rapid  is  the  process  of  differentiation,  that  often  utterance 
takes  place  when  the  two  elements  in  the  perception  are  just  emerging 
from  the  primitive  mass,  and  both,  therefore,  appear  in  the  figure. 
Emily  Dickinson  in  her  poem  called    "The  Snake"  represents  exactly 

1  Compare  the  following  observation:  "En  eSet,  quand  I'ecrivain  suivant  le  tour  de  sa 
pensee,  exprime  les  choses  de  la  fa9on  particuliere  dont  il  les  sent,  ou  las  voit,  il  ne  fait  qu'obeir 
aux  memes  lois  de  I'esprit  que  le  peuple.  II  n'y  a  point  de  difference  entre  les  figures  du  style 
d'un  ecrivain  et  celles  de  la  langue  populaire,  sauf  que  chez  I'ecrivain  ce  sont  des  hardiesses 
individuelles,  tandis  que  chez  le  peuple,  si  ces  hardiesses  sont  individuelles  a  I'origine,  elles  ont 
ete  adoptees  par  tous,  consacrees  par  I'usuage,  et  sont  devenues  habitudes  de  langage. — Arsene 
Darmsteter,  La  Vie  des  Mots,  pp.  45-46. 

*  Barrett  Wendell,  Eng.  Comp.,  p.  249. 


K 


r  ; 


—  34  — 

the  development  of  a  dim  perception  into  definiteness.  She  says  that 
she  saw 

"a.  whip-lash 

Unbraiding  in  the  sun, — 

When,  stooping  to  secure  it, 

It  wrinkled,  and  was  gone. " 

Her  hazy  impression  of  a  something  long,  brown,  slender  and  convolute 
had  already  separated  out  of  its  mass  the  idea  of  "whip-lash",  with  others, 
such  as  that  of  a  snake,  just  stirring  into  consciousness,  when,  "stoop- 
ing to  secure  it",  of  a  sudden  "it  wrinkled  and  was  gone",  so  that  the 
dormant  idea  of  "snake"  sprang  at  once  into  full  view  and  the  figure 
was  complete  in  which  a  snake  is,  according  to  the  rhetorical  dictum, 
"compared"  to  a  whip-lash. 

Similar  readings  of  poetic  metaphors  might  be  multiplied  indefi- 
nitely. When  Tennyson  says  that  "fear  chalked  her  face",*  we  can  see 
that  the  thought  has  leaped  to  expression  just  at  the  instant  when  the 
first  vague  impression  of  a  surface  rapidly  growing  white  was  separating 
into  the  two  yet  half-conscious  images  of  a  surface  being  overlaid  with 
chalk,  and  a  face  paling  under  the  influence  of  fear.  When  he  says 
again  in  the  same  poem,  < '  I  stole  from  court,  cat-footed  through  the 
town",  we  are  able  to  recognize  the  first  nebulous  perception  as  that  of 
a  stealthy,  noiseless  manner  of  walking,  out  of  which  were  just  emerg- 
ing into  consciousness  the  constituent  image  of  the  cautious  tread  of  a 
cat  and  the  hero's  own  sneaking  footsteps.  When  Milton  talks  about 
"low-browed  rocks, "^  it  is  evident  that  the  menacing  effect  of  some- 
thing dark  and  overhanging  is  but  just  resolving  itself  into  the  beetling 
rocks  and  the  low  brows  of  a  human  face.  When  Keats  spoke  of  the 
' '  wings  "  of  sweet  peas,  the  vague  perception  of  a  rounded,  half-pear- 
shaped  outline  was  in  the  act  of  dividing  itself  into  the  form  of  the  sweet- 
pea  petals  and  the  conventional  shape  of  wings.  Henry  James  says  that 
"The  gondolier's  cry,  carried  over  the  quiet  water,  makes  a  kind  of 
splash  in  the  stillness^*  thus  showing  the  inchoate  sensation  of  an  inter- 
ruption, a  sharp  difference  in  the  ordinary  course  of  things,  as  branch- 
ing doubly  into  the  two  images  of  the  sound  produced  by  a  cry  breaking 
the  stillness  and  that  of  a  splash  made  in  water. 

Such  an  explanation  as  this  for  the  origin  of  metaphor  has  two 
advantages  over  that  propounded  by  the  rhetoricians.  It  is  psychologi- 
cally defensible;  and  it  avoids  the  artificiality  of  the  rhetorical  hypo- 
thesis. These  two  are  of  course,  in  the  last  resort,  one,  since  the  fact 
that  metaphor  is  attributed  to  a  normal  and  universal  process  of  mind, 
which  seeks  only  its  natural  expression  in  language,  destroys  at  once 
the  theory  of  an  artificial  origin. 

We  may  say,  then,//in  summary,  that  poetic  metaphor,  like  radical, 

*  7'Ae  Princess. 

*V  Allegro. 

»  Venice,  The  Century,  Vol.  XXV,  p.  13. 


—  35  — 

is  a  straightforward  attempt  to  communicate  to  another  person  the 
maker's  vision  of  an  object  as  it  appeared  to  him  at  the  moment  of 
expression,  not  at  all  to  carry  out  a  dark  design  of  persuading  the  reader 
that  this  object  is  something  which  the  writer  knows  it  is  not.  The 
writer  is  simply  taking  a  snap-shot  at  his  own  process  of  perception  in 
one  of  its  intermediate  stages.  This  stage  may  be  one  not  reached 
by  the  maker  of  a  radical  metaphor.  To  him,  the  constituents  of  his 
vague  perception  had  not  yet  disclosed  themselves;  while  often  the  poetic 
metaphor  expresses  this  primitive  perception  in  the  act  of  differentiation, 
two  or  more  images  appearing  side  by  side  in  the  figure.  The  mistake 
of  the  rhetoricians  lies  in  their  failure  to  go  back  of  the  simultaneous 
presence  of  these  two  images  in  the  metaphor,  to  the  earlier  stage  of 
perception  in  which  the  two  were  seen  as  one.  Failing  thus  to  trace 
back  the  duality  of  the  metaphor  to  a  primitive  unity  of  consciousness, 
they  were  forced  to  account  in  some  way  for  the  presence  of  the  two 
images  side  by  side  in  the  figure.  The  resemblance  which  existed  be- 
tween them  was  accordingly  made  the  connecting  link,  and  the  writer 
was  conceived  as  making  use  of  it  for  some  purpose  of  his  own  to  unite 
the  two.  Thus  the  whole  artificial  explanation  of  the  rhetorical  meta- 
phor has  been  built  up.  The  occasion  for  it,  together  with  the  hypo- 
thesis itself,  tumbles  to  the  ground  when  we  touch  the  question  of"''^ 
psychological  genesis. 

The  old  rhetorical  hypothesis  may  be  sharply  contrasted  with  the 
psychological  by  saying  that  the  former  started  with  two  objects  and 
hitched  them  together  to  make  the  figure,  while  the  latter  begins  with  a 
single  object  or  situation,  out  of  which  develop  the  two  elements  in  the 
metaphor.  The  one  explanation  conceives  of  metaphor  as  a  mechani- 
cal product,  like  a  box,  whose  parts,  gathered  from  different  sources  are 
put  together  to  make  the  whole.  The  other  regards  it  as  the  result  of 
a  vital  process,  more  like  a  plant  or  an  animal,  whose  members  grow 
from  the  same  source,  out  of  a  homogeneous  mass  into  a  clearly  differ- 
entiated structure.  The  one  represents  the  biological,  the  other  the 
mechanical  conception  of  the  metaphor. 

Metaphor,  from  this  point  of  view,  is  vital.  It  is  not  compounded 
like  a  prescription  with  intent  to  produce  a  certain  effect  upon  the  per- 
son who  swallows  it;  but  it  springs  spontaneously  out  of  a  genuine 
thought-process  and  represents  with  exactness  a  certain  stage  of  a  grow- 
ing perception.  It  is  no  artificial,  manufactured  product,  but  a  real 
organism,  living,  growing  and  dying.  We  shall  trace  its  further  progress 
in  the  following  chapter. 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE    EVOLUTION    INTO    PLAIN    STATEMENT. 

We  have  traced  the  metaphor  from  its  origin  in  a  nebulous  and  un- 
developed perception  of  a  situation  to  its  first  tentative  outbranchings, 
from  a  state  of  perfect  homogeneity  to  one  of  beginning  differentiation. 
But  our  task  is  not  yet  ended.  The  growing  perception  does  not  at  this 
point  cease  to  develop.  There  is  a  sequel  to  the  history  thus  far  outlined. 
And  this  sequel  is  our  present  interest. 

What  becomes  of  the  developing  perception  of  a  situation  after  it  has 
passed  the  metaphorical  stage.'  For  instance,  when  the  child  says 
"moon"  as  he  points  to  the  lamp-globe,  we  know  that  "moon"  repre- 
sents to  him  a  single  physical  sensation  which  he  refers  vaguely  to  any 
large,  white,  softly  glowing  object  which  is  present  to  his  consciousness. 
The  moon  and  the  globe  are  one  for  his  undiscriminating  mind.  But 
little  by  little  out  of  this  hazy  sense  of  something  large,  round  and  softly 
glowing,  emerge  into  half-distinctness  the  two  objects  lamp-globe  and 
moon,  probably  first  differentiated  by  the  dawning  sense  of  distance. 
When  the  two  had  become  sufficiently  separated  in  perception,  they 
would  doubtless  be  distinguished  in  speech.  The  lamp-globe  might,  for 
instance,  become  the  "near  moon"  or  "baby's  moon."  Later  its  proper 
name  would  be  discovered  and  used,  and  the  two  objects  would  have 
become  perfectly  distinct  in  the  consciousness,  so  that  the  common  ori- 
gin would  as  such  be  quite  forgotten.  The  two  objects  would  stand  in 
the  mind  of  the  speaker  almost  as  completely  separated  as  if  they  had 
always  been  so.  Not  quite,  however,  for  between  the  two  exists  a  con- 
nection, recognized  by  the  speaker,  the  vestige  of  their  former  identity. 
This  connection  might  find  expression  in  such  a  statement  as  the  follow- 
ing: "That  lamp-globe  looks  like  a  full  moon."  It  no  longer  is  the 
moon,  nor  is  it  the  "near  moon"  or  "baby's  moon."  It  is  not  a  moon 
at  all,  but  only  looks  like  one.  The  two  elements  in  the  metaphor  have 
separated  so  widely  that  each  is  seen  as  distinct  from  the  other. 

So  far  then  we  have  noted  three  stages  of  metaphor  growth  which 
may  be  briefly  characterized  as  follows:  The  first  represents  that  stage 
of  perception  in  which  the  figure  is  still  homogeneous.  Teeth  are  pearls. 
The  one  name  stands  for  a  single  sensation  produced  by  a  row  of  vaguely- 
perceived  small  objects,  white,  glistening  and  all  but  translucent.  The 
second  is  that  representing  the  stage  of  perception  at  which  it  has  begun 
to  differentiate  into  two  main  constituents.  This  is  expressed  by  saying 
"pearly  teeth."  The  third  represents  a  later  stage  of  perception  in 
which  the  two  objects,  just  beginning  to  draw  apart  from  one  another  in 
the  second  period,  have  separated  so  far  that  a  connection  is  visible  be- 
tween them,  this  connection  being  commonly  expressed  in  language  by 


—  37  — 

the  words   "as"  or   "like."     At  this  stage  of  the  developing  perception 
one  would  say  "Her  teeth  are  like  pearls." 

The  development  of  a  metaphor  is  strikingly  like  the  process  known 
as  fission  in  the  case  of  the  lowest  forms  of  life.  The  amoeba,  for  in- 
stance, at  one  moment  apparently  a  homogeneous  jelly-like  splash  of 
protoplasm,  shows  an  hour  later  a  slight  elongation  and  a  constriction 
near  its  middle.  It  is  becoming  dual.  Two  sections  of  its  body  are  be- 
ginning to  show  themselves  where  before  was  but  one.  The  constriction 
narrows  little  by  little,  the  two  parts  of  the  once  single-celled  animal  be- 
come more  distinct.  Finally  there  is  but  a  thread  connecting  them.  It 
slowly  parts,  and  there  are  two  amoebae  where  one  was  before. 

In  the  metaphor  process  we  have  reached  the  stage  at  which  the 
constricted  portion  has  become  visible  as  a  connection  between  the  two 
dividing  sides  of  the  figure.  These  two  sides  were  at  first  indiscernible, 
united  in  the  single  homogeneous  structure  of  the  original  perception. 
But  as  the  perception  developed  it  divided,  and  a  connection  of  resem- 
blance was  visible  where  complete  identity  had  been. 

Gummere  alone,  of  writers  upon  the  metaphor,  has  recognized  this  ^ 

order  of  development.  Metaphor,  he  argues,^  must  have  preceded  simile 
in  point  of  time.  The  one  object  was  the  other  before  it  was  seen  to  be 
like  the  other.  "  In  genuine  heathen  poetry,"  he  says,  "there  is  no 
space  for  similes,  since  the  gap  between  the  literal  and  figurative,  ab- 
stract and  concrete,  is  so  narrow  that  a  metaphor  leaps  it  almost  uncon- 
sciously. There  is  no  need  for  the  simile  bridge.  I  suggest,  therefore, 
the  following  as  a  probable  order  of  development  in  poetical  style:  i. 
That  form  of  metaphor  now  known  as  allegory,  entirely  figurative,  in- 
cluding, of  course,  personification.  2.  Metaphor  proper,  where  the  lit- 
eral peeps  through;  as,  in  classique  immittit  habenas.  3.  The  meta- 
phor grown  entirely  conscious  of  itself,  conscious  of  the  gap  between 
reality  and  figure;  divided  into  (a)  Implied  simile:  'he  is  a  lion'  and  (b) 
Stated  simile:  '  he  ?.f ///^<?  a  lion.'  -•  ^' -  p.-  -'    -^^  -^^     -^    >,■-..... 

Without  going   into  the  subject   of  allegory  it  may  be  noted  that     sxv-w,^^ 
Gummere's  statement  finds  its  explanation  and  justification  in  such  a  ,„ 
view  of  the  origin  of  metaphor  as  has  been  presented  in  the  foregoing.^^^^^^ 
chapters.      His    ' '  metaphor   proper "    corresponds  to  radical   metaphor^ 
where  the  single  name  represents  a  single  impression,  yet  undifferenti- 
ated.     Here   "the  literal  peeps  through,"  but  only  from  our  own  point 
of  view,  not  from  that  of  the  speaker,  who  was  unconscious  of  any  du- 
plicity.    Gummere's    "conscious"    metaphor  is  divided  into    "implied 
simile"  and   "  stated  simile."^     The  implied  simile  corresponds  to  the 
"poetic  metaphor,"  as  we  have  termed  it,  in  which  the  perception  is 
just  separating  into   its  constituents:   the  stated  simile  to  the  simile  as 
commonly  understood,  in  which  the  constituent  elements  of  the  original 
perception  have  so  far  separated  that  the  connection  between  them  is 
recognizable  as  resemblance. 

1  Mod.  Lang.  Notes,  i  :83,  Metaphor  and  Poetry, 

2This  classification  obtains  also  in  Gummere's  Handbook  of  Poetics^    Bk.  II,  Style,  pp. 
90-110. 


«  ^Mt-a^tx^  ■  > 


—  38  — 

This  last  stage  of  development  might,  perhaps,  with  a  degree  of 
propriety,  be  termed  ' '  conscious. "  The  resemblance  or  analogy  between 
the  two  elements  in  the  metaphor,  which  at  first  existed  only  as  a  hazy 
sense  of  identity,  has  now,  in  psychological  phrase,  "come  to  conscious- 
ness." It  is  recognized  as  resemblance.  When  Swinburne  says:* 
"And  fruit  and  leaf  were  as  gold  and  fire,"  we  know  that  the  fruit  and 
the  gold  are  no  longer  included  by  him  in  the  one  large  undifferentiated 
class  of  things  that  make  upon  him  the  sensation  later  identified  as  yel- 
low; that  the  leaf  and  the  fire  have  become  distinct  from  one  another  in 
his  consciousness.  They  have  so  far  separated  that  he  sees  them  clearly 
as  two,  though  recognizing  that  somehow  they  resemble  each  other. 
The  fruit  is  in  some  unspecified  respect  like  gold  and  the  leaf  like  fire. 
So,  in  The  Princess  to  draw  again  from  this  store  house  of  metaphor, 
when  the  Prince, 

' '  wrote 
In  such  a  hand  as  when  a  field  of  corn 
Bows  all  its  ears  before  the  roaring  East." 

the  original  vague  impression  of  serried  ranks  bent  all  in  one  direction 
has  divided  into  the  sloping  chirography  and  the  field  of  corn,  swept  by 
a  violent  wind.  These  two  elements  have  grown  apart,  yet  a  resem- 
blance is  recognized  between  them.  And  when,  in  the  same  poem,  we 
are  told  that 

" the  women  sang 

Between  the  rougher  voices  of  the  men 
Like  linnets  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind." 

we  recognize  a  separation  between  the  two  series  of  sounds,  but  a 
perception  of  the  fact  that  these  two  have,  after  all,  some  common 
quality.  2 

In  all  these  cases,  however,  this  common  quality,  the  exact  point 
of  resemblance  is  not  specified.  The  perception  has  not  reached  a  stage 
of  development  sufficiently  advanced  for  such  specification.  The  analogy 
is  felt  rather  than  thought.  It  grows  explicit,  however,  when  the  writer 
or  speaker  comes  to  perceive  that  not  only  two  things  are  alike,  but  in 
what  respect  they  are  alike.  This  step  is  only  the  logical  sequence  of 
those  which  have  preceded.  The  series  of  which  we  have  hitherto 
spoken,  beginning  with  the  name  "pearls"  as  applied  to  all  small, 
white,  glistening,  translucent  objects,  and  proceeding  with  "pearly 
teeth"  and  "teeth  like  pearls,"  is  continued  by  the  phrase  "teeth  white 

^Atalanta  in  Calydon,  First  Chorus. 

2  This  stage  of  metaphor  development  is  further  exemplied  by  Shelley  when  he  compares 
the  skylark  successively  to  four  different  things,  "a  poet  hidden  in  the  light  of  thought,"  ''a 
high-born  maiden  in  a  palace  tovyer,"  "  a  glow-worm  golden  in  a  dell  of  dew,"  and  "a  rose 
embowered  in  its  own  green  leaves."  The  exact  point  of  likeness  is  nowhere  specified,  but  it  is 
implied,  as  Moyse  says  {^Poetry  as  a  Fine  Art,  p.  51)  in  the  idea  of  "invisibility  or  deep  seclu- 
sion running  through  all."  This  statement  of  the  implicit  likeness  is  perhaps  not  quite  adequate. 
The  invisibility  or  deep  seclusion  of  a  fruitful,  richly-diffusive  presence  seems  to  me  to  ap- 
proach the  whole  idea  of  the  poet  in  its  first  unanalyzed  state. 


—  '69  — 

as  pearls."  Here  the  resemblance  is  particularized.  That  which  at  first 
constituted,  in  part  at  least,  the  identity  of  impression  received  from  the 
two  objects  is  now  clearly  perceived  as  a  quality  common  to  both. 

The  hair  of  the  Blessed  Damosel,  "yellow  as  ripe  corn,"  has 
reached  this  stage  of  perception.  It  is  not  vaguely  assigned  to  the  com- 
prehensive class  of  things,  making  an  impression  of  rich  yellow  color  on 
the  mind  of  the  writer.  Out  of  this  class  have  already  separated  two 
distinct  objects,  the  hair  of  the  Blessed  Damosel  and  ripe  corn.  They 
have  drawn  so  far  apart  from  each  other  that  the  writer  cannot  now  say, 
though  he  might  have  done  so  an  instant  before,  ' '  her  hair  was  ripened 
corn."  He  sees  now  that  the  one  is  not  the  other  but  only  resembles  it. 
He  might  say  that  it  is  "like  ripe  corn"  simply;  but  his  thought-process 
has  moved  a  step  beyond  this,  and  he  sees  in  what  respect  the  hair  is 
like  the  corn.  They  are  alike  in  color;  both  are  yellow;  so  he  says  her 
"  hair  was  yellow  like  ripe  corn." 

The  statement 

' '  Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depths 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even," 
reveals  the  same  stage  of  metaphor-development.  ' '  I  wandered  lonely 
as  a  cloud  "  shows  not  only  that  the  two  objects  are  separated  from  one 
another,  and  that  a  connection  is  observed  between  them,  but  that  this 
connection  is  recognized  as  being  a  resemblance  in  one  particular,  that 
of  isolation,  not  whiteness,  not  transitoriness,  nor  any  other  quality 
whatsoever.  Browning's  characterization  of  a  "fruit-shaped,  perfect 
chin"  '  belongs  to  this  family,  as  does  Tennyson's 

"But  bland  the  smile  that  like  a  wrinkling  wind 
On  glassy  water  drove  his  cheek  in  lines."* 
The  shape  constitutes  the  point  of  likeness  in  the  one  case;  in  the  other 
the  effect  produced  by  each  element  in  the  figure  unites  them. 

We  may,  then,  classify  the  developing  metaphor  as  follows: 

1.  Radical  metaphor,  in  which  objects  later  recognized  as  two  are 
represented  by  a  single  word  or  phrase  which  is  equivalent  to  neither 
object,  nor  to  the  quality  which  they  have  in  common,  but  to  the  one 
vague  sensation  or  impression  made  by  both  objects  upon  the  mind  of 
the  speaker,  not  yet  defined  or  differentiated.  Illustrations  of  this 
metaphor  would  be  the  term  "cola"^  as  applied  by  M.  Taine's  infant 
daughter  to  all  sweetmeats,  the  word  "moon,"  as  including  lamp-globe, 
the  word  "house"  as  used  to  designate  a  bird's  nest,*  etc. 

2.  Poetic  metaphor,  in  which  two  objects  or  images  are  just  be- 
ginning to  disentangle  themselves  from  this  homogeneous  sensation. 
Illustrations  of  this  class  are  found  in  such  examples  as  ' '  the  hoarse 
wind,"*  "a  sorrow-clouded  eye,"*  "Sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall,"*  etc. 

'  A  Face. 

2  The  Princess. 

»SeeCh.  I. 

*  Matthew  Arnold,  The  Forsaken  Merman. 

*  Tennyson,  Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Weliington. 


—  40  — 

3.  Simile,  including  all  cases  in  which  the  two  constituents  of  the 
metaphor  have  so  far  separated  themselves  from  the  original  homogene- 
ous sensation  and  from  each  other  that  they  are  recognized  as  two  ob- 
jects slightly  cohering  by  some  resemblance  or  analogy.  Of  this  there 
may  be  two  species:  (a)  That  simile  in  which  the  connection  between 
the  two  objects  is  recognized  by  the  writer  only  as  a  resemblance,  the 
particular  point  of  resemblance  not  being  specified. 

"That  face,  like  a  silver  wedge 
'Mid  the  yellow  wealth,"^ 

is  an  illustration,  (b)  That  simile  in  which  the  resemblance  between 
the  two  objects  is  limited  to  a  particular  quality  or  characteristic  com- 
mon to  both.  This  species  may  be  illustrated  by  Keats's  "jellies 
soother  than  the  creamy  curd"  and  "upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as 
smooth-sculptured  stone."^ 

V^^iOur  conclusions,  then,  as  to  the  relationship  between  metaphor 
and  simile  must  be  quite  contrary  to  those  commonly  held  by  the  rhet- 
oricians. The  simile  is  not  the  earlier  figure,  transformed  into  metaphor 
by  the  simple  device  of  cutting  out  the  connective  "as"  or  "like":'*  but 
it  is  a  stage  later  than  metaphor  in  the  process  of  developing  a  vague 
sensuous  impression  into  the  clear-cut  judgment  upon  a  given  situation. 
The  relation  between  these  figures  is  more  than  merely  verbal.  It  is  a 
fundamental  relationship  of  thought.  Simile  is  a  half-way  house  for  the 
metaphor-process  on  its  way  to  plain  statement.* 

1  Browning,  Gold  Hair. 

^  Eve  of  St.  Agnes. 

'Precisely  this  statement  is  made  by  the  following  writers:  ''A  metaphor  is  a  simile  with 
the  words  like  or  as  left  out." — J.  M.  D.  Meiklejohn,    The  English  Language.^  p.  190.     "The 

simile  and  the  metaphor  are essentially  alike:  and  a  metaphor  can  be  made  from  any 

simile  by  omitting  the  word  like  or  aj." — W.  E.  Mead,  El.  Comp.  and  Khec,  p.  46.  "  A  met- 
aphor differs  from  a  simile  in  form  only,  not  in  substance." — Kames,  Els.  of  Crit.,  Chap.  XX, 
§  6.  "  The  metaphor  is  a  shorter  simile." — Goldsmith,  Essay  (Unacknowledged)  On  the  Use 
of  Metaphors.  The  metaphor  is an  abridged  simile." — D.  J.  Hill,  Elements  of  Rhet- 
oric, p.  83.  Metaphor  is  "an  abridged  comparison." — Blair.  "  Metaphora  brevior  est  simili- 
tude."— Quintilian,  Institutes,  Bk.  VIII,  Ch.  VI,  §  8.  "  Eine  abgekiirzte  Vergleichung." — 
Brinkmann,  Die  Metaphern,  p.  25.  Metaphor  is  "  no  other  in  effect  than  a  comparison  in  epi,- 
tome." — G.  Campbell,  Philos.  of  Rhet.,  Bk.  Ill,  Ch.  II,  Pt.  I,  "A  metaphor  is  a  simile  in  one 
word." — Lord  Monboddo,  Of  the  Origin  and  Progress  of  Language,  Vol.  VI,  Bk.  II,  Ch.  i,  p. 
lOl.  "  A  metaphor  is  a  brief  similitude  contracted  into  a  single  word." — Cicero,  De  Oratore, 
Bk.  Ill,  Ch.  XXXIX. 

*  The  foregoing  account  of  the  evolution  from  metaphor  to  plain  statement  does  not  con- 
flict necessarily  with  Mr.  L.  A.  Sherman's  observations  as  to  the  growing  concentration  of  figures 
in  our  literature.  Without  endorsing  his  conclusions  one  can  readily  admit  their  consonance  in 
all  essentials  with  the  theory  advanced  in  these  chapters.  We  have  seen  that  metaphor,  or,  ac- 
cording to  Mr.  Sherman,  the  more  "  concentrated"  form  of  the  figure,  represents  a  stage  of  per- 
ception antecedent  to  that  expressed  in  the  simile;  Mr.  Sherman  urges  that  ''  allegory  or  parable 
was  first  and  succeeded  by  running  metaphor:  next  clause  metaphors,  which  were  reduced  to 
phrases,  and  phrases  finally  to  compound  or  single  terms."  {Analytics  of  Literature,  p.  79). 
These  opinions  seem  at  first  quite  incongruous;  but  they  escape  direct  antagonism  in  two  ways. 
First,  Mr.  Sherman's  "concentration  "  is  not  always,  though  it  is  sometimes,  a  logical  concentra- 
tion. The  metaphor  represents  a  thought  less  expanded,  less  developed  than  the  parable,  but  a 
clause  metaphor  is  not  of  necessity  more  expanded  in  thought  than  a  phrase  metaphor.  In  so 
far  as  Mr.  Sherman's  idea  of  concentration  concerns  expression  only,  we  have  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  In  so  far,  however,  as  it  is  a  matter  of  thought,  it  insists  on  being  reckoned  with.  Upon 
this  question  it  is  somewhat  difficult  to  come  to  terms  with  Mr.  Sherman,  inasmuch  as  the  "con- 


—41  — 

We  have  now  reached  a  point  beyond  which  the  development  of 
the  metaphor  cannot  go.  When  the  two  constituents  of  the  fig- 
ure have  been  completely  separated,  their  resemblance  recognized  as  such 
and  narrowly  defined,  no  further  separation  can  take  place  without  a 
complete  rending  in  twain,  a  disintegration  of  the  metaphor.  Let  us 
suppose,  for  instance,  that  the  series  which  we  have  traced  as  far  as  the 
expression  "teeth  white  as  pearl"  be  carried  still  further.  The  vague 
feeling  that  two  sensations  were  identical  has  branched  into  a  sense  of 
two  objects  or  images  connected  by  resemblance,  and  this  resemblance 
has  been  identified  as  a  quality  or  characteristic  common  to  both  objects, 
— the  quality  of  whiteness.  This  quality,  now  brought  into  clear  con- 
sciousness, has  freed  the  one  object  from  the  other.  When  one  sees 
clearly  why  teeth  are  like  pearls,  he  is  not  compelled  to  say  they  are  like 
pearls  in  order  to  express  the  idea  that  they  are  white.  He  can  say 
directly  that  they  are  white,  a  fact  he  did  not  conceive  before.      He  knew 

centration''  of  a  metaphor  on  the  thought  side,  evidently  seems  to  him  a  matter  of  compression 
from  some  larger  estate.  His  idea  of  the  evolution  of  metaphor,  considered  as  representative  of 
thought,  appears  to  be  that  metaphor,  at  first  a  large,  well-defined,  explicit  comparison  of  two 
objects,  became  little  by  little  reduced  in  bulk  and  obscured  in  details,  limited  to  a  comparison 
in  one  salient  feature  only,  and  that  rather  suggestive  than  overt.  The  coqception  of  this  pro- 
cess which  has  been  involved  in  the  present  discussion  is  far  different.  Metaphor  in  its  first  stage 
represents  a  vague,  unorganized  nucleus  of  a  perception,  which  only  slowly  expands  and  defines 
itself  into  detailed  comparison.  Under  this  conception,  the  term  "  concentration  "  has  little 
meaning.  We  may,  p)erhaps,  apply  it  to  the  first  estate  of  metaphor  as  indicating  its  embryonic, 
comparatively  undeveloped,  unexpanded  state;  but  doing  so,  we  are  brought  face  to  face  with  the 
apparent  contradiction  between  the  two  theories.  Mr.  Sherman  would  say  that  the  development  of 
the  figure  has  been  from  parable  (or  simile)  to  metaphor.  We  must  hold  the  logical  order  of  de- 
velopment in  a  single  mind  to  be  from  metaphor  to  parable  (or  simile). 

This  brings  us  to  our  second  means  of  escajje  from  a  direct  opposition  to  Mr.  Sherman. 
The  biologic  theory  of  metaphor  development  urges  that  each  metaphor  in  the  mind  of  an  indi- 
vidual passes  through  the  stages  indicated,  becoming  eventually  a  plain  statement  of  fact.  It 
does  not,  however,  assert  that  for  one  hundred  years  after  metaphor  was  invented,  all  metaphors 
passed  through  the  first  stage  only;  that  they  all  reached  the  second  stage  in  the  second  period 
of  one  hundred  years,  and  that  in  the  third  period  all  metaphors  were  found  in  the  third  stage. 
It  does  not  imply  that  radical  metaphors  were  predominant  in  the  world  for  a  certain  number  of 
years,  that  then  poetic  metaphor  became  conspicuous,  and  that  simile  only  was  used  after  that 
time.  This  hypothesis  is,  perhaps,  suflBciently  discredited  in  the  last  pages  of  the  present  chap- 
ter. It  will  be  necessary  here  only  to  state  that  the  question  of  the  variety  of  metaphor  most  in 
vogue  at  any  given  time  is  a  question,  not  of  the  existence  of  the  stage  of  thought-develop- 
ment which  that  variety  represents,  but  of  the  rime  of  the  thought's  expression.  In  every  per- 
ception the  first  embryonic  stage  exists,  which,  if  then  expressed,  would  be  a  radical  metaphor;  a 
more  developed  stage  also  exists,  whicli  must  vent  itself,  if  at  all,  in  the  poetic  metaphor:  the 
simile-stage  and  the  plain-statement-stage  also  exist.  The  question  is  one  simply  of  the  time  at 
which  expression  takes  place. 

Now,  inasmuch  as  in  the  most  primitive  times,  fewer  perceptions,  in  proportion  to  the  whole 
number,  have  gone  beyond  the  first,  unorganized  stage,  the  chances  are  greater  for  expression  in 
radical  mecaphor.  Later,  the  more  developed  perceptions  increase  in  number  and  the  evolution 
from  one  stage  to  another  has  grown  so  rapid  that  the  first  stage  may  often  be  passed  over  uncon- 
sciously. Poetic  metaphor  might  then  be  used  and  the  earlier  stage  of  thought  disregarded,  not 
coming  to  expression.  So  the  simile  might  be  used  predominantly  in  writers  so  comparatively 
sophisticate  as  Homer  and  Vergil.  So  also  is  plain  statement  affected  by  many  scientists  and 
philosophers  whose  scorn  for  the  figure  would  seem  to  indicate  a  belief  on  their  part  that  they 
liad  never  seen  in  figurative  guise  these  same  things  which  they  express  literally.  No  doubt  they 
believe  they  have  never  done  so:  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  every  plain  statement  has  passed 
through  its  metaphorical  stage  in  their  minds,  though  so  swiftly,  perhaps,  that  they  are  uncon- 
scious of  the  fact. 

A  little  introspection  is  necessary,  in  minds  where  the  cerebral  processes  are  practised  and 
therefore  somewhat  rapid,  to  bring  the  earlier  stages  to  light,  to  delay  the  evolution  for  a  moment. 


—  42  — 

first  only  that  somehow  the  two  things  made  the  same  impression  on 
him.  Later  he  felt  that  they  were  alike  in  some  way;  but  it  is  only 
when  their  alikeness  has  defined  itself  in  his  mind  as  the  quality  white- 
ness that  he  can  be  independent  of  pearls  and  say  simply  that  certain 
teeth  are  white.  The  metaphor  process  is,  then,  a  mode  of  getting  at 
abstract  ideas,  and  only  when  it  is  complete  can  one  use  "plain  state- 
ments. '"  Those  savage  tribes  who  have  no  words  for  ' '  round, "  ' '  hard, " 
and  such  abstract  qualities,  but  must  say  "like  the  moon,"  "  Hke  a 
stone,"  etc. ,^  are  still  in  the  midst  of  the  process,  as  are  those  children 
who  instead  of  calling  a  silver  dollar  large  and  a  dime  small,  call  the 
one  "  mamma"  and  the  other  "  baby."^  It  is  only  through  the  meta- 
phor-process that  abstract  ideas  come  into  existence.*     Only  across  this 

or  to  call  it  back,  that  one  may  become  conscious  of  its  several  steps.  This  habit  of  introspec- 
tion the  man  of  science  lacks,  being  intent  more  upon  results  than  upon  processes  and  usually 
uninterested  in  psychologic  analysis.  He  has  also  become  accustomed  to  balance  considerations 
long  and  carefully,  to  weigh  all  his  facts,  and,  in  fact,  to  think  his  thought  clear  to  the  end,  before 
expressing  it,  so  that  the  state  of  plain  statement,  representing  a  perfectly  developed  and  finished 
perception,  is  the  one  most  commonly  represented  in  his  speech  or  writing.  All  antecedent  stages 
are  partly  unconscious,  partly  unvalued. 

The  modern  poet,  however,  is  both  introspective  and  accustomed  to  the  expression  of  an 
unfinished  thought.  He  is  interested  in  perception  for  its  own  sake,  not  alone  as  leading  to  cer- 
tain conclusions  regarding  the  object  he  sees.  He  is  thus  accustomed  to  note  his  own  impressions 
with  peculiar  vividness,  to  call  them  up  over  and  over,  until  he  is  familiar  with  every  shifting 
phase  of  them,  so  that  he  would  naturally  remark  an  early  and  obscure  stage  in  their  develop- 
ment, and  would  often  arrest  the  process  at  that  point  for  expression.  More  and  more  this  ten- 
dency to  express  a  growing  perception  in  its  earlier  stages  would  increase,  as  the  taste  of  an  age 
turned  to  suggestion  rather  than  definition,  to  stimulus  rather  than  to  exact  formulation  in  liter- 
ature. And  thus  would  become  possible  the  modern  tendency  which  Mr.  Sherman  alleges  toward 
the  predominant  use  of  the  metaphor  in  modern  poetry.  I  may,  perhaps,  say  that  my  own  read- 
ing would  confirm  Mr.  Sherman's  observation.  I  have  left  the  point  open  not  through  unbelief, 
but  because  its  acceptance  demands  exact  proofs  in  the  nature  of  numerical  computations  which 
are  not  in  my  possession. 

One  further  consideration  of  Mr.  Sherman's  interesting  statement  may  be  added.  If  it  be 
true,  in  general,  that  metaphor  is  the  figure  characteristic  of  the  romantic  school  in  literature,  as 
simile  of  the  classical  (using  these  terms  in  the  widest  sense  as  indicating  the  two  perennially 
opposing  forces  in  all  art),  one  source  of  this  affinity  may  be  found  in  the  fact  that  romanticism 
is  subjective,  introspective  and  self-conscious  as  against  the  objective  straightforwardness  of  classi- 
cism. Thus  the  former  tendency  would  seem  to  favor  metaphor  in  so  far  as  that  depends  upon 
a  detention  in  the  consciousness  of  early  stages  in  perception  likely  otherwise  to  slip  rapidly 
through  the  mind  without  coming  to  expression. 

*  "  Wie  im  Schreiben  Bilderschrift  f ruber  war,  als  Buchstabenschrift,  so  war  im  Sprachen. 
die  Metapher  das  friihere  Wort,  welches  sich  erst  allmahlich  zum  eigentlichen  Ausdruck  ent- 
farbte." — J.  P.  Richter,  Vorschule  der  Aesthetik. 

"  Die  Ursprache  ist  noch  unentfarbte  Bildlichkeit.  In  dieser  Zeit  gibt  es  noch  keine  Prosa, 
weil  jedes  Wort  schon  durch  seine  Wurzel  und  seine  Zusammensetzung  einen  poetischen  Ein- 
druck  erregt,  weil  jede  Anschauung  schon  ein  Gedanke,  jede  Bezeichnung  ein  Versuchzudichten 
ist." — Bauer,  Das  Bild  in  der  Sprache,  I,  p.  9. 

2  See  note  i,  Ch.  I. 

*  Cf.  Sully,  Studies  of  Childhood,  pp.  163-4. 

*  George  Eliot's  observation,  made  often  by  others,  that  rigidly  plain  statement  is  all  but 
impossible,  tends  to  confirm  this  view,  as  does  also  the  universally  noted  phenomenon  that  meta- 
phorical speech  is  far  commoner  than  plain,  abstract  language  among  people  of  undeveloped  in- 
telligence, such  as  savages  and  children.  "  O,  Aristotle!  if  you  had  the  advantage  of  being  '  the 
freshest  modern  instead  of  the  greatest  ancient,'  would  you  not  have  mingled  your  praise  of 
metaphorical  speech  as  a  sign  of  high  intelligence,  with  a  lamentation  that  intelligence  so  rarely 
shows  itself  in  speech  without  metaphor — that  we  can  so  seldom  declare  what  a  thing  is,  except 
by  saying  it  is  something  else  ?" — Mill  on  the  Floss,  Bk.  II,  Ch.  I. 


—  43  — 

bridge  do  we  arrive  at  a  plain  statement,  that  is  an  abstract  statement,  of 
fact.  ' 

Having  once  completed  this  process  and  defined  the  abstract  idea 
of  white  or  yellow  out  of  the  hazy  impression  of  white  or  yellow  objects, 
one  is  thenceforth  free  to  use  those  terms,  directly,  in  the  case  of  these 
objects.  He  can  say  "Her  teeth  are  white"  or  "very  white."  The 
hair  of  the  Blessed  Damosel  may  be  affirmed  to  be  of  a  rich  yellow  color, 
her  eyes  to  be  exceedingly  deep.  It  is  not  now  possible,  in  the  case  of 
these  perceptions,  to  express  them  in  their  half-differentiate  form,  as  was 
done  before  the  common  quality  of  whiteness  and  yellowness  became  ex- 
plicit in  the  consciousness  of  the  speaker.^  Notice  I  said  "in  the  case 
of  these  perceptions,"  it  is  not  possible  to  express  them  metaphorically 
after  the  common  characteristic  has  defined  itself.  It  would  be  mani- 
festly absurd  to  say  that  as  soon  as  yellow  had  come  to  consciousness  as 
the  common  characteristic  between  hair  and  ripe  corn,  the  cause  of  their 
making  the  same  impression  on  the  senses,  it  could  not  again  be  born 
into  the  mind  through  the  same  metaphorical  process,  though  in  a  differ- 
ent situation,  in  connection  with  different  objects.  Thi>  process  would 
doubtless  be  greatly  shortened  the  second  time,  still  further  abridged  the 
third,  and  the  fourth,  but  up  to  the  nth  instance  would  certainly  occur. 
More  and  more  subconscious  it  must  also  become,  so  that  the  practical, 
non-introspective  intelligence  often  passes  it  quite  unawares.  But  a 
close   examination  of  one's  mental   processes  brings  this  one  to   light. 

I  make  this  statement  to  forestall  the  objection  which  is  altogether 
likely  to  arise  in  many  minds,  tenacious  of  the  dignity  of  metaphor  and 
of  the  poetry  of  which  it  is  the  core, — the  objection  that,  if  metaphor 
represents  a  less  highly  developed,  a  less  mature  stage  of  perception,  it 
must  be  less  honorable  than  plain  statement,  and,  further,  it  must  cease 
from  the  earth  after  a  time,  when  the  intellectual  faculties  of  men  have 
fully  ripened. 

As  to  the  first  half  of  this  objection,  it  may  be  answered  that  a 
question  of  honor  is  not  involved,  but  a  question  of  function.  If  the 
function  of  the  pioneer  be  less  honorable  than  that  of  the  citizen  in  a 
long  established  community,  the  original  investigator  in  science  less  hon- 
orable than  that  of  the  teacher  of  accredited  theories,  the  creator  in  lit- 
erature less  honorable  than  the  critic,  then  the  function  of  the  metaphor 
may  be  considered  less  honorable  than  that  of  the  plain  statement.     But 

1  When  a  metaphor  has  been  transformed  into  plain  statement,  it  is  commonly  said  to 
have  died.  This  term  is  perhaps  appropriate  in  so  far  as  death  is  taken  to  be  only  a  change  of 
form,  but  it  is  inapt  so  far  as  it  implies  the  negation  of  life,  of  growth.  Metaphor  ceases  to  be 
metaphor,  it  is  true,  but  only  because  it  becomes  something  else,  because  it  has  reached  a  fur- 
ther stage  of  development.  Whenever  in  this  chapter,  therefore,  the  "death  "  of  metaphor  is 
spoken  of,  the  term  must  be  understood  as  carrying  with  it  an  idea  of  fulfillment  and  progression 
rather  than  that  of  finality  or  decay. 

*  It  may  be,  perhaps,  that  the  older  form  of  speech  will  continue  to  be  used,  but  in  a  sense 
perfectly  literal.  "Corn-colored  hair"  may,  for  instance,  come  to  mean  little  more  than  yellow 
hair;  the  term  "rosy  cheeks,"  in  our  common  speech  seldom  bears  any  reference  either  open  or 
concealed  to  a  red  rose;  "neat  as  wax,"  "sweet  as  a  pink,"  "brown  as  a  berry,"  "  warm  as 
toast  '•'  are  but  traditional  equivalents  for  a  sup>erlative  degree  of  neatness,  sweetness,  brown  col- 
oring and  warmth. 


—  44  — 

it  is  useless  to  dispute  over  the  relative  values  of  function.  Each  is  as 
essential,  as  dignified  and  as  honorable  as  any  other.  The  metaphor 
has  perhaps  the  harder  and  the  rougher  task.  It  is  no  dainty,  useless 
"ornament"  of  speech,  as  was  long  taught  among  us,  but  the  first  crude, 
indispensable  stage  of  the  growing  thought.  Plain  speech,  as  a  later 
development  of  thought,  may  show  a  finer  finish,  but  cannot  be  more 
powerful  or  more  serviceable. 

The  notion  that  metaphor  must  ultimately  be  superseded  by  plain 
statement  springs  from  a  hmited  view  of  the  resources  of  nature  and  of 
the  human  mind.  A  new  situation  is  necessary  for  metaphor,  a  sensa- 
tion as  yet  undifferentiated;  but  new  situations  and  new  sensations  are 
presented  to  every  individual  every  day  of  his  life.  He  may  look  at  the 
sea  for  the  hundredth  time,  but  at  this  hundredth  time  the  situation  is 
essentially  different  from  the  occasion  of  the  ninety-ninth  seeing. 
Doubtless  some  quality  of  light  upon  the  waves,  some  feeling  in  the  air, 
some  fineness  in  the  foam,  some  cadence  in  the  roar  of  the  waves  is 
different  to-day  from  what  it  has  ever  been  before.  The  observer  him- 
self is  different.  His  senses  are  sharper  from  the  experience  of  the 
ninety-nine  times  he  has  stood  here  before.  His  attention  is  arrested 
by  a  certain  feature  in  the  scene  because  some  previous  event  has  forced 
it  upon  his  notice.  The  situation  is  one  never  presented  to  him  before. 
If  his  senses  are  but  half  aroused,  it  may  seem  to  him  like  the  same  old 
situation.  But  the  alert,  receptive,  impressionable  mind  of  a  poet  per- 
ceives it  to  be  essentially  different.  Witness,  for  instance,  the  various 
epithets  applied  by  Shakespeare  to  a  single  object,  the  sea.  Once  it  is 
the  "silver  sea,"^  again  "the  furrowed  sea,"^  "the  deep  mouthed  sea,"' 
"the  pretty-vaulting  sea,"*  "the  imperious  sea,"*  "the  vexed  sea,"'  "the 
wayward  seas,"'  "the  multitudinous  seas,"^  "a  wilderness  of  sea."» 
And  still  Shakespeare  views  it  under  aspects  other  than  these.  He 
speaks  of  "the  rude  sea's  surged  and  foamy  mouth,"'"  and  of  "the  very 
hem  o' the  sea.""  Bolingbroke  and  Norfolk  are  "in  rage  deaf  as  the 
sea,"'^  and  when  Orpheus  played 

' '  Even  the  billows  of  the  sea 
Hung  their  heads."'* 
All  these  are  essentially  new  situations  for  the  mind  of  Shakes- 
peare.    The  object  itself  may  be  familiar,  but  the  man's  view  of  it  is 
fresh. 

1  Richard  IT,  Act  II,  Scene  I,  1.  46. 

*  Henry  F,  III,  Prol.  12. 
'  Henry  V,  Prol.  11. 

*  2  Henry  VI,  Act  III,  Sc.  II,  1.  94. 
"  Cymbeline,  Act  IV,  Sc.  II,  1.  35. 

«  Lear,  Act  IV,  Sc.  IV,  1.  2. 

T  Pericles,  Act  IV,  Sc.  IV,  1.  10. 

8  Macbeth,  Act  11,  Sc.  II,  1.  62. 

*  Titus  Andronicus,  Act  III,  Sc.  I,  1.  68. 
»«  Twelfth  Night,  Act  V,  Sc.  I,  1.  81. 

"  Timon  of  Athens,  Act  V,  Sc.  IV,  1.  66. 
i«  Richard  II,  Act  I,  Sc.  I,  1.  19. 
"  Henry  VIII,  Act  III,  Sc.  I.  10. 


—  45  — 

We  need  not,  then,  from  the  statement  that  metaphor  depends 
upon  a  new  situation,  conclude  that  all  situations  will  in  time  become 
so  far  analyzed  and  defined  that  vital,  natural  figures  will  be  impossible. 
Such  a  view  indicates  limited  imagination  and  narrow  faith.  It  is 
psychologically  true  that  the  analysis  of  any  situation  deepens  and 
changes  not  only  that  situation  but  its  observer.  His  eyes  are  opened 
to  see  new  objects,  or  old  ones  in  a  new  light.  He  is  a  different  man 
and  his  world  is  new. 

There  is  thus  no  limit  to  the  new  situations  of  which  our  expanding 
universe  and  our  expanding  selves  are  capable.  Metaphor,  while  a  stage 
in  the  perceptive  process  which  must  always  be  superseded  by  plain 
statement,  must  as  certainly  recur  in  a  new  perceptive  process.  Though 
one  metaphor  may  die  into  abstract  speech,  another  rises  out  of  the  very 
extension  and  complication  of  experience  which  the  former  process  of 
growth  and  death  has  afforded.  To  paraphrase  Swinburne's  assertion, 
"Metaphors  perish,  but  metaphor  shall  endure." 

1    'Men  perish,  but  man  shall  endure;  lives  die,  but  the  life  is  not  dead." — Hymn  of  Man 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE    ESTHETICS    OF   METAPHOR. 

Hitherto  we  have  discussed  the  metaphor  mainly  from  the  point  of 
view  of  its  maker.  In  this  chapter  we  shall  consider  its  effect  upon  the 
hearer  or  reader.  The  effect  of  metaphor  upon  the  reader  has  by  no 
means  passed  unnoticed  among  rhetoricians.  In  fact,  as  we  have  seen 
in  a  preceding  chapter/  this  effect  is  so  conspicuous  that  the  desire  to 
produce  it  has  been  assigned  by  writers  upon  the  subject  as  the  all- 
sufficient  cause  of  metaphor.  Metaphor  takes  its  rise,  these  writers 
have  said,  from  the  desire  of  the  speaker  to  produce  a  certain  effect 
upon  the  hearer.  This  theory  we  have  discarded,'  but  with  it  we  have 
not  laid  aside  the  fact  that  metaphor  does  produce  a  very  definite  reac- 
tion upon  the  mind  of  the  hearer  or  reader.  This  fact  is,  indeed,  quite 
indubitable.  Rhetoricians  may  differ  more  or  less  widely  as  to  its  exact 
nature,  but  they  all  agree  that  an  effect  of  some  sort  is  produced. 

What,  then,  is  the  effect  of  metaphor  upon  the  mind  of  the  reader.? 
The  answers  of  the  rhetoricians  can,  I  think,  be  grouped  into  three 
classes.  Metaphor  gives  the  reader  pleasure;^  it  economizes,'  or  it 
stimulates,*  his  mental  energies.  These  three  typical  statements  cover, 
so  far  as  I  am  aware,  all  the  answers  made  by  the  writers  of  rhetorics 
to  the  question — "What  effect  has  metaphor  upon  the  reader.?" 

Let  us  see,  in  the  first  place,  whether  this  list  of  effects  produced 
by  the  metaphor  cannot  be  still  further  reduced.  In  Mr.  A.  S.  Hill's 
statement  of  his  principle  of  stimulus  we  have  a  suggestion  toward  this 
end.  Spencer  would  persuade  us  that,  in  order  to  grasp  the  idea  in- 
volved, metaphor  demands  less  work  from  the  mind  than  does  plain 
statement.  In  other  words,  metaphor  conduces  to  clearness  or  sim- 
plicity of  expression  so  that  it  is  easier  than  plain  statement  to  understand. 
This  idea  of  the  metaphor  as  a  means  to  clearness  is  one  which, 
since  the  classical  writers,  has  been  practically  abandoned  by  rhetori- 
cians.^ Mr.  E.  E.  Hale,  Jr.,  states  in  its  extreme  form  the  idea  that 
metaphor  effects  not  clearness  but  vigor  of  statement.  "Metaphor," 
he  says,  "is  in  its  very  nature  a  confusion.  .  .  .  On  the  whole  the 
metaphor  is  opposed  to  clear  thinking.    .  .    .    But  ....   if  metaphor 

'  Ch.  II. 

2  Aristotle,  Rhetoric,  Bk.  Ill,  ch.  II;  Cicero,  De  Oratore,  Bk.  Ill,  Chs.  XXXVIII  and 
XXXIX;  Kames,  Els.  of  Crit.,  Ch.  XX,  §  6. 

'  Spencer,  Philos.  of  Style,  Scott's  ed.,  §  IV.  Also  D.  J.  Hill,  Science  of  Rhetoric, 
p.  217. 

*  A.  S.  Hill,  Prtns.  of  Rhet.,  ed.  1895,  p.  119. 

^  I  notice  only  two  after  Aristotle  who  treat  of  metaphor  as  primarily  a  means  to  clearness. 
These  are  J.  G.  R.  McElroy  [Structure  of  English  Prose,  p.  245)  and  Arlo  Bates  {Talks  on 
Writing  English,  p.  loi).  Bain,  Tompkins  and  De  Mille  regard  metaphor  as  making  for  both 
clearness  and  force,  Campbell,  Whately,  Hart,  Cairns,  Day,  Wendell,  A.  S.  Hill,  Gummere, 
as  contributing  wholly  to  force. 


—47— 

does  not  tend  toward  clearness,  it  does  give  us  liveliness,  brilliancy, 
energy.  .  .  . " '  This  conception  of  the  metaphor  has  come  to  prevail 
among  rhetoricians,  that  it  does  not  serve  to  make  an  idea  so  plain  and 
clear  that  the  mind  has  no  difficulty  in  grasping  it;  but  rather  that  it  pre- 
sents certain  difficulties  to  comprehension,  but  so  suggestively  or  forcibly 
that  the  mind  is  enabled  to  over-ride  them.  This  is  precisely  the  view 
of  Mr.  A.  S.  Hill.  "The  metaphor,"  he  says,  "though  shorter 
than  the  simile,  does  not  achieve  a  'great  economy'  in  mental 
effort.  It  usually  demands  more  mental  effort,  but  it  enables  us  to 
make  the  effort  with  greater  ease.  We  are  *  gratified '  but  we  are  also 
stimulated."'  In  short,  metaphor  does  not  render  mental  exertion  less 
necessary  than  does  plain  statement.  It  rather  stimulates  the  mind  to  do 
more  work  with  less  conscious  effort,  and  thus  decreases,  not  the  whole 
amount  of  energy  put  forth  by  the  mind,  but  such  part  of  that  energy  as 
may  be  conscious,  voluntar)'  or  forced.  In  such  case  it  may  indeed 
seem  to  the  reader  that  he  has  put  forth  less  energy,  because  all  that  he 
has  exerted  has  gone  out  spontaneously;  as  in  the  oft-quoted  case  of  the 
small  boy  whose  fatigue  is  too  great  to  admit  of  an  errand  to  town  but 
does  not  for  a  moment  stand  in  the  way  of  a  ball  game.  In  each 
instance,  that  of  the  ball  game  as  that  of  the  metaphor,  there  is  truly 
economy  of  energy,  but  only  of  that  energy  which  is  forced,  conscious, 
frictioning.  Of  the  energy  that  springs  forth  spontaneously  in  answer  to 
adequate  stimulus  there  is  extreme  prodigality.  So,  at  least,  would  Mr, 
Hill's  dictum  imply. 

If  we  adopt  his  hypothesis,  that  metaphor  stimulates  the  mind  of 
the  reader,  we  need  not  hesitate  to  grant  that  the  conscious,  deliberate 
mental  activity  required  to  grasp  an  idea  will  be  considerably  diminished 
by  it.  This  is  simply  the  re-statement  of  an  admitted  principle  of  psy- 
chology-, that  to  produce  a  given  action,  the  weaker  the  stimulus,  the 
greater,  in  general,  must  be  the  conscious  effort  of  the  actor;  the  stronger 
the  stimulus,  the  smaller  the  voluntary,  self-determined  element  in  his 
response.'  We  react  to  a  sharp  stimulus  unconsciously.  We  need  not 
try  to  see  a  flash  of  lightning,  but  a  page  of  fine  print  in  a  waning  light 
strains  our  eyes.  We  can  readily  understand  how,  if  the  metaphor 
stimulates  the  mind  strongly  it  decreases  the  conscious  effort  demanded 
to  grasp  the  idea  involved,  and  thus,  in  a  sense  more  limited  than 
Spencer  saw,  economizes  mental  energy. 

We  have,  then,  reduced  to  two  our  statements  of  the  effect  pro- 
duced by  metaphor  upon  the  reader.  His  mind  is  stimulated,  or  it  is 
gratified.  It  is  quite  possible  that  eventually  we  shall  find  a  connection 
between  these  two  remaining  effects  so  intimate  that  we  are  justified  in 
considering  them  as  aspects  of  the  same  general  phenomenon.     For 

1  Constructive  Rhetoric,  p.  265.  Cf.  Marie  Bashkirtseff:  "If  I  make  nse  of  a  few  figures  jjl 
of  speech,  do  not  think  it  is  for  ornament;  oh,  no!  it  is  simply  for  the  purpose  of  describing  as  ^ 
nearly  as  possible  the  confusion  of  my  thoughts." — -Journal,  July  18,  1877. 

»  Principles  of  Rhetoric,  ed.  1895,  p.  119. 

»  Sec  James,  Psychology,  Briefer  Course,  Ch.  Xm,  Voluntary  Attention,  p.  224. 


—  48  — 

the  present,  however,  we  shall  set  about  investigating  each  effect  by 
itself. 

First  let  us  inquire  as  to  the  fact.  Does  metaphor  stimulate  the 
mind  of  the  reader.?  In  order  to  answer  this  question  adequately,  it  is 
necessary  to  trace  somewhat  in  detail  the  actual  operation  of  the  meta- 
phor as  read.  Let  us,  then,  see  what  takes  place  in  the  mind  of  a  per- 
son who  hears  or  reads  a  metaphor. 

The  radical  metaphor,  before  it  has  been  recognized  as  metaphor, 
of  course  falls  outside  of  our  inquiry.  Two  savages,  or  two  children  of 
the  same  age,  who  say  to  one  another  "atta"^  meaning  disappearance, 
when  a  person  leaves  the  room,  when  the  sun  sets  and  when  a  light  is 
extinguished,  at  each  time  of  saying  it  simply  set  up  in  the  mind  of  the 
hearer  a  hazy  consciousness  of  some  situation  familiar  as  a  whole  which 
at  this  time  varies  from  its  usual  form  in  having  dropped  out  one  of  its 
elements.  The  situation,  then,  is  one  vaguely  felt  as  disappearance  or 
loss.  The  element  which  has  dropped  out  of  its  usual  environment  is 
not  sharply  defined,  nor  is  the  way  in  which  it  has  disappeared  clearly 
evident.  Any  disappearance  of  anything  in  any  way  may  constitute  the 
image  expressed  by  the  one  speaker  by  the  word  "atta"  and  called  up 
in  the  mind  of  the  other.  To  hearer  as  to  speaker,  "atta"  means 
the  situation  when  the  sun  sets  as  well  as  when  a  person  leaves  the 
room.  The  two  perceptions  are  not  distinguished  either  by  hearer  or 
by  speaker. 

But  suppose  one  of  the  children,  or  one  of  the  savages,  to  discrim- 
inate between  the  manner  in  which  a  companion  disappears  from  the 
room  and  that  in  which  the  sun  sinks  from  sight.  Then,  when  "atta" 
is  said  in  his  hearing,  the  vague,  little-defined  image  of  a  disappearance 
will  first  rise  before  his  eyes,  this  breaking  rapidly  into  two  images,  one 
of  a  person  walking  out  of  a  room,  the  other  of  the  sun  setting.  These 
images  are  the  elements  once  latent  in  the  undefined  image  of  a  disap- 
pearance. Now  they  have  sprung  out  of  it  and  the  mind  of  the  hearer 
wavers  between  them  for  an  instant.  But  suppose  the  speaker  in  this 
case  meant  the  setting  of  the  sun.  The  hearer  following  the  speaker's 
eyes,  would  meet  the  situation  in  which  the  sun  was  ordinarily  an  ele- 
ment, but  from  which  it  had  vanished.  Instantly  the  image  of  the  per- 
son walking  from  the  room  would  take  a  subordinate  place  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  hearer,  and  the  image  of  the  disappearing  sun  receive 
the  ictus  of  attention. 

After  it  had  frequently  happened  that,  the  word  ' '  atta  "  called  up  in 
the  mind  of  the  hearer  two  somewhat  distinct  images,  the  speaker's 
meaning  being  sometimes  seen  to  be  one,  sometimes  the  other,  the 
hearer  would  finally  come  to  see  that  for  the  speaker  "atta"  meant 
neither  the  one  image  nor  the  other,  but  the  vaguer,  less-defined  situa- 
tion of  disappearance  or  loss,  out  of  which  the  two  more  specific  images 
had    developed.      The    relation    of   these    two    specific    images   to   the 

1  See  Preyer,  The  Mind  of  the  Child,  Pt.  II,  p.  150. 


—  49  — 

original  vaguer  image  and  thus  to  each  other  would  be  recognized, 
at  first  dimly,  then  more  clearly,  until  it  might  even  appear  as  resem- 
blance. When  this  recognition  had  taken  place,  the  hearer  could 
see  how  the  speaker  came  to  use  the  "radical  metaphor,"  could 
retrace  the  steps  in  his  own  mental  process,  back  to  the  undifferentiate 
image  which  still  persisted  in  the  speaker's  mind,  could  see  it  branch  in- 
to two  distinct  elements  as  his  perception  clarified,  and  could  even  go 
further,  to  the  explicit  recognition  of  the  relation  of  resemblance  between 
the  two  images. 

The  person  hearing  the  radical  metaphor,  having  himself  already 
emerged  from  the  homogeneous  stage  of  perception  for  the  situations  in- 
volved, has,  it  is  plain,  experienced  the  metaphor  presented  to  him, 
working  back  -to  its  first  undifferentiated  state  and  then  following  its 
development  into  plain  statement.  So  much  for  the  reception  of  the 
radical  metaphor. 

The  next  period  of  development  for  the  speaker's  thought  is  that  in 
which  the  situation  has  begun  to  divide.  The  child  Ilda  says  ' '  Mamma- 
ba,"  pointing  to  the  sheep  in  the  picture,  "Ilda-ba,"  indicating  the 
lambs.*  The  aboriginal,  undeveloped  sense  of  "large"  or  "grown-up" 
has  divided  into  "Mamma"  on  the  one  side  and  sheep,  or  "ba,"  on  the 
other;  that  of  "small"  or  "baby"  into  Ilda  on  the  one  hand  and  sheep 
on  the  other.  Now  what  process  is  set  up  in  the  mind  of  the  hearer  by 
this  metaphor.''  At  first,  it  is  evident,  the  two  images  must  be  flashed 
almost  simultaneously  into  the  hearer's  consciousness.  They  struggle 
for  an  instant;  then  the  two  images  are  quickly  traced  back  to  their 
root  and  made  one  in  the  vague  original  sense  of  "large"  or 
"grown-up."  Then  it  may  be  that  the  speaker's  mental  process  is  rap- 
idly reproduced  in  the  hearer's  mind.  The  vague  original  feeling  of 
"large"  or  "grown-up"  swiftly  falls  apart  into  the  two  branches 
"  Mamma"  and  "sheep,"  and  unites  itself  again  in  a  clear  perception  of 
the  likeness  between  them." 

One's  perception  of  a  metaphor  chanced  upon  in  reading  will  be 
found  to  follow  this  same  general  programme.  We  see  on  the  page 
before  us  Lowell's  "When  grass-blades  stiffen  with  red  battledew."^ 
The  line  runs  easily  enough  until  the  words  "red  battle-dew"  are 
reached.  Something  red  that  stiffens  the  grass  blades  in  time  of 
battle  is  plainly  enough  blood.  But  no  sooner  has  this  image  darted 
into  the  mind  than  it  is  opposed  by  another,  that  of  '  •  dew  "  which  the  last 
word  in  the  line  has  aroused.  What  have  these  two  to  do  with  one  an- 
other.? What  is  there  in  common  between  blood  and  dew.?  From  one 
image  to  another  the  mind  vibrates,  unable  to  rest  in  either  or  to  resolve 

1  Romanes,  Mental  Evolution  in  Man,  p.  283. 

2  It  need  not  be  insisted  upon  that  always  this  reconstruction  of  the  speaker's  mental 
process  carries  itself  in  the  mind  of  the  hearer  to  a  completion  unattained  by  the  speaker;  but 
always  if  the  idea  in  the  speaker's  mind  be  grasped  by  the  hearer,  the  two  elements  named  by 
the  speaker  must  be  traced  back  to  their  source  in  the  speaker's  vague  perception  of  an  undefined 
situation,  in  this  case  the  nebulous  sense  of  "  large  "  or  "  small." 

Washers  of  the  Shroud. 

^^X^^ ■"l^p! 

T^  OF  THH  r 


>. :/ 


—  50- 

the  two  into  one.  But  this  conflict  is  not  for  long.  The  two  elements 
are  rapidly  traced  back  to  the  original  undefined  sensation  of  some 
liquid  dabbling  the  grass,  thence  differentiated  into  the  red  stiffening 
blood  and  the  white  limpid  dew,  and  unified  once  again,  but  more 
completely,  in  the  explicit  perception  that  the  blood  of  a  battle-field  is 
like  a  red  dew  spattering  the  grass. 

For  a  second  illustration  of  the  same  process  let  us  take  Shelley's 
"The  moon  rains  out  her  beams.'"  The  image  of  down-pelting  rain  is 
swiftly  superseded  by  that  of  softly  diffused  moonbeams.  At  first  the 
two  oppose  each  other  sharply,  but  the  next  instant  they  have  merged 
themselves  in  a  cloudy  vision  of  something  descending  from  the  skies  in 
a  great  flooding  volume,  this  situation  separating  itself  again  into  the 
rain  drops  and  the  moonbeams  and  becoming  once  more  united  in  a  clear 
recognition  of  the  likeness  between  the  two. 

Swinburne's  "all  their  green-haired  waters"  ^  jars  sharply  at  first, 
until  the  dissonant  elements,  hair  and  grass,  have  united  in  the  obscure 
perception  of  fine  long  filaments,  out  of  which  they  originally  sprung. 
Then  this  perception  may  divide  and  come  together  as  it  will,  each 
return  to  the  fundamental  unity  establishing  in  the  reader's  mind  a 
sharper,  more  definite  idea  of  the  relation  between  the  two  elements 
concerned. 

It  is  impossible  to  adduce  direct  evidence  in  support  of  the  state- 
ment that  this  process,  or  one  similar  to  it,  takes  place  in  the  mind  of 
the  person  who  reads  or  hears  a  metaphor.  One's  own  subjective  expe- 
riences must  constitute  for  each  reader  the  chief  witnesses;  and  these 
unfortunately  are  often  impeachable.  Indirect  testimony,  however,  ap- 
pears in  the  account  given  by  all  rhetoricians  of  the  process  of  metaphor- 
making  as  one  of  taking  two  objects  or  images  and  finding  a  connection 
between  them.  Why  should  all  the  philosophizers  upon  this  subject 
have  hit  upon  just  this  explanation,  if  it  be  not  true  that  their  theory 
describes  the  mental  process  of  which  each  has  been  dimly  conscious  in 
reading  a  metaphor.?  Nothing  could  be  more  natural  than  to  conclude 
that  because  the  reader  must  establish  connection  between  two  elements 
in  the  metaphor,  the  writer  had  originally  to  do  the  same  thing.  And 
the  fact  that  the  rhetoricians  almost  without  exception  affirm  such  a 
process  of  the  metaphor-maker  seems  to  indicate  at  least  a  half-con- 
scious recognition  of  the  same,  process  carried  on  b}'  themselves  as 
readers. 

With  this  indirect  evidence,  and  the  directer,  though  more  uncer- 
tain, testimony  of  introspection,  we  must  consider  the  point  established 
that  the  reader  of  a  metaphor  first  vibrates  between  the  two  disconnected 
images  aroused  by  the  figure,  next  perceives  vaguely  the  primeval  unity 
out  of  which  they  both  had  emerged  and,  having  secured  this,  may  re- 
peat the  original  process  by  which  the  metaphor  grew  in  the  mind  of  the 
writer.      Having  granted   the  description,    however,    we    have    still    to 

»  7'Ag  Skylark. 

*  Atalanta  in  Calydon. 


—  51  — 

answer  the  question:  Does  metaphor  in  any  peculiar  sense  stimulate 
the  mind  of  the  reader?  That  is,  specifically,  does  it  stimulate  his  mind 
to  a  greater  degree  than  does  plain  statement? 

If  the  foregoing  description  be  accepted  as  a  true  account  of  the     i 
process  set  up  in  the  mind  of   any   person  who   reads  a   metaphor,  we      I 
must  grant  to  the  figure  a  considerable  stimulating  power.     The  focus     f\ 
of  attention  is  first  driven  about  helplessly  from  one  image  to  the  other.     ■! 
It  cannot  rest  upon  either  and  the  mind  is  consequently  forced  somehow     'i 
to  unify  the  two,   to  trace  back  the  opposing  images  to  their  common     'i\ 
source,  to  reproduce  the  writer's  original  perception,  in  all  its  teeming     ij 
vagueness.       The  shock  of  the  two  incongruous  images  in  such  close 
juxtaposition  acts  as  a  powerful  stimulus  upon  the  mind.     It  is  at  least 
dimly  conscious  that  these  images  were  not  incongruous,  not  unrelated, 
to  the  writer  who  put  them  side  by  side.      To   his   mind  there  was  a 
meaning  in  their  association.      But  what  was  it?    There  is  the  zest  of  an 
enigma  or  a  conundrum  in  the  inquiry.'     The  puzzle  must  be  solved. 
As  often  as  the  reader  recurs  to  it,  he  is  fascinated,  unsatisfied.      Each 
side  of  the  paradox  in  turn  holds  possession  of  his  mind.    Then,  with  a 
flash  of  insight,   the  solution  bursts  upon  him.      The  two  incompatible 
images  blend  into  one  and  the  mind  is  at  rest. 

Such  is  the  story,   when,   for  instance,   one  reads  of  Swinburne's 
Atalanta  that  she  was 

" a  maiden  clean, 

Pure  iron,  fashioned  for  a  sword.  "^ 

If  she  had  been  only  a  stern,  chaste,  unswerving,  unyielding,  single- 
purposed  maiden,  one  could  read  her  languidly,  grasping  the  idea  of  her 
character  with  little  effort  and  with  as  little  vividness.  Each  of  these 
characteristics,  we  must  conceive,  had  long  ago  gained  a  relatively  inde- 
pendent existence  in  our  consciousness.  Each  had  been  born  of  meta- 
phor, though  now  forgetful  of  it.^  The  metaphor-process  had  taken 
place  so  often,  the  resolution  to  plain  statement  been  made  so  frequently, 
that  at  last  the  dualistic  stage  had  come  to  be  passed  over  rapidly  and 
all  but  unconsciously.  The  idea  "chaste"  had,  for  instance,  grown  out 
of  the  first  dim  perception  of  something  spotless,  unsullied.  A  sheet  of 
new-fallen  snow,  a  block  of  flawless  ice,  the  character  of  a  pure  maiden, 
made  vaguely  the  same  impression  upon  our  minds.  This  inchoate  per- 
ception, however,  soon  branched  doubly  into,  say,  the  ice  on  the  one 
side,  the  maiden  on  the  other.  And  finally,  after  the  first  hazy  sensa- 
tion had  many  times  separated  itself  into  these  two  constituents,  the 
connection  of  the  two  became  evident  as  the  point  of  resemblance, 
which  we  were  thereupon  able  to  name  purity  or  chastity. 

Now  it  is  probable  that  the  word   "chaste,"  whenever  heard,  sets 
up  in  the  consciousness  some  such  process  as  that  by  which  it  originally 

1  Cf .  Aristotle's  statement  that  style  is   "a  riddle  if  it  consists  of  -metaphors." — Poeticst 
Ch.  XXI. 

*  Atalanta  in  Calydon. 
»  S«e  Ch.  III> 


—  52  — 

came  into  being.  This  process,  however,  has  become  so  famihar,  so 
automatic,  almost,  that  it  takes  place  subconsciously.  It  is  as  when  we 
transfer  sensations  from  the  field  of  sight  into  that  of  touch  and  say, 
seeing  a  certain  fabric,  —  "Its  surface  is  rough."  The  complex  process 
by  which  we  translate  the  sensations  of  sight  into  the  judgment  that  the 
surface  is  rough  goes  on  in  our  minds  unconsciously,  so  accustomed  is  it. 
We  do  not  note  its  stages.  The  result  is  all  that  claims  our  attention. 
And  so  it  is  with  the  metaphor-process  which  underlies  our  perceptive 
realization  of  each  "plain  statement"  presented  to  us.  It  goes  on  un- 
noticed because  so  rapid  and  so  familiar.  But  it  is  nevertheless  a  real 
experience  continually  passing  through  our  minds. 

We  have  seen  how  it  may  be  excited  by  the  literal  statement  corre- 
sponding to  Swinburne's  figurative  description  of  Atalanta.  And  we 
have  also  noted  the  mental  process  set  up  by  the  metaphor,  ' '  pure  iron, 
fashioned  for  a  sword."  We  are  ready  now  to  inquire  "What  is  the 
essential  difference  between  the  two.-*" 

Just  this.  The  plain  statement  started  a  reaction  that  has  become 
habitual  in  the  mind,  leading  to  the  perception  of  a  certain  abstract 
j^  characteristic,  say  that  of  high  severity.  The  metaphor  conducts  us  to 
the  same  goal  precisely,  but  over  the  road  on  which  the  writer  had 
started,  a  road  very  possibly  unfamiliar  to  the  reader  and  certainly  not 
chosen  by  him.  Plain  statement  asks  the  reader  only  to  arrive,  by 
his  own  preferred  route,  at  a  certain  idea.  Metaphor  demands  more 
— that  the  reader  come  to  the  writer's  completed  idea  and  in  the  writer's 
own  way. 

Since  we  can  measure  a  stimulus  only  by  the  force  of  its  reaction, 
we  must  adopt  this  method  for  determining  the  stimulating  power  exerted 
by  the  metaphor  in  comparison  with  plain  statement.  It  is  evident, 
from  the  foregoing  description,  that  the  force  brought  by  metaphor  to 
bear  upon  the  reader's  mind  is  considerably  greater  than  that  put  forth 
by  plain  statement.  While  the  latter  avails  only  to  propel  the  reader's 
thought  along  an  accustomed  and  prefeirred  channel,  metaphor  forces  it 
to  fall  in  with  that  of  the  writer,  to  trace  the  writer's  branching  idea 
back  to  its  source  and  then  to  follow  its  ramifications  beyond  the  point 
of  actual  expression,  to  traverse  a  road  that  may  be  wholly  new,  a  coun- 
try hitherto  unseen. 

We  must  grant,  then,  that  metaphor  exerts  an  influence  upon  the 
mind  of  the  reader  far  more  powerfully  stimulating  than  that  of  plain 
statement.  But  we  have  still  to  pursue  our  second  inquiry  as  to  the 
pleasure-giving  effect  of  metaphor.  Let  us  carry  on  this  inquiry 
quite  independently,  returning  in  due  time  to  the  point  just  established. 

To  the  question  ' '  Is  metaphor  pleasurable  to  the  reader?"  but  one 
answer  is  possible.  Upon  this  point  all  testimony  agrees.  Whether 
the  effect  of  metaphor  be  considered  primarily  to  economize  or  to  stim- 
ulate mental  energy,  every  writer  upon  the  subject,  either  implicitly  or 
explicitly  maintains  its  ultimate  result  to  be  that  of  pleasure-giving. 
Upon  the  fact,  then,  that  metaphor  is  pleasurable,  we  need  not  pause, 


—  53  — 

since  it  is  acknowledged  by  all  writers,  and  attested  by  universal 
experience.  So  firmly,  in  fact,  has  the  idea  of  metaphor  as  a 
pleasure -giving  element  in  literature,  taken  root  in  our  common  con- 
sciousness, that  we  make  this  characteristic  a  standard  for  judging  the 
individual  metaphor.  We  know  of  no  other  way  of  pronouncing  for  or 
against  a  metaphor  than  by  saying  that  it  is  pleasing  or  displeasing  to 
us.  If  it  be  displeasing  we  are  certain  that  there  is  something  abnor- 
mal about  it,  something  pathological,  in  fact.  If  pleasing  there  is  noth- 
ing more  to  be  said.  The  metaphor  is  a  true  metaphor.  It  has  justified 
itself.  So  strong  as  this  is  our  conviction  that  an  essential  characteristic 
of  metaphor  is  its  pleasure-giving  effect. 

There  is,  we  have  said,  among  writers  a  general  agreement  upon 
the  fact  that  metaphor  gives  pleasure  to  the  reader.  But  there  is  no 
such  agreement  as  to  the  reason  why  it  does  so.  In  fact  there  is  no  as- 
pect of  the  whole  subject  concerning  which  such  diversity  of  opinion 
obtains.  Cicero  alone  has  four  different  hypotheses:  i.  "Because  it  is 
some  manifestation  of  wit  to  jump  over  such  expressions  as  lie  before 
you,  and  catch  at  others  from  a  greater  distance."  2.  "Because  he  who 
listens  is  led  another  way  in  thought  and  yet  does  not  wander  from  the 
subject."  3.  " Because  a  subject  and  entire  comparison  is  despatched 
in  a  single  word."  4.  "Because  every  metaphor  ....  is  directed 
immediately  to  our  senses  and  principally  to  the  sense  of  sight."' 

These  by  no  means  exhaust  the  list,  but  they  may  serve  as  a  starting 
point  for  our  discussion,  being  fairly  typical  of  all  the  reasons  assigned. 
We  shall  take  them  up  in  order  of  importance,  beginning  with  that  es- 
sentially superficial  statement  which  traces  the  pleasurable  effect  of 
metaphor  to  its  brevity.^  It  is  quite  evident  that  we  shall  gain  here  no 
thorough-going  solution  of  our  problem.  In  the  first  place,  brevity  is 
not  an  invariable  nor  an  essential  characteristic  of  metaphor.  It  is  true 
that  metaphor  is,  as  Spencer  indicates,  usually  shorter  than  simile;  but 
even  this  is  not  always  true;  and  it  may  very  often  employ  a  larger 
number  of  words  than  does  the  corresponding  literal  statement.  Thus 
even  if  it  were  possible  to  account  for  the  pleasurable  effect  of  some 
metaphors  by  their  concise  form  of  expression,  this  explanation  would 
not  cover  all  cases. 

And,  in  the  second  place,  brevity  as  brevity  is  neither  pleasing  nor 
displeasing.  A  brief  form  of  expression  may  sometimes  be  pleasurable, 
but  it  is  not  necessarily  so.  One  could  hardly  maintain  that  "No," 
"  Fire  !"  "Stand  off  !"  although  concise  statements  of  an  idea,  are  neces- 
sarily pleasing  to  the  hearer.  It  is  not  brevity  as  such  which  in  any  case 
gives  pleasure,  but  some  deeper-lying  characteristic,  which  Cicero  made 
no  attempt  to  discover. 

Spencer,  however,  seems  at  least  dimly  conscious  that  a  small 
number  of  words  alone  (though  formally  he  makes  this  the  condition  of 
pleasure),  is  not  sufficient  to  account  for  the  effect  produced  by  meta- 

» De  Oratore,  Bk.  HI,  Ch.  XL. 

^Cicero's  third  reason  above.      See  also  Spencer,  Philosophy  of  Style,  Scott's  ed.,  p.  25. 


—  54  — 

phor/i  '  '^"i  e*^pression  of  the  same  idea,  he  would  say,  is  more  pleasur- 
able iV'^  A  t^an  if  expanded.  In  other  words,  the  compression  of  the 
idea  g*P  S  pleasure.  That  this  is  often  true  one  would  not  wish  to  deny. 
Whether  it  is  always  or  inherently  true  is  a  question  not  so  easily  set- 
tled. Spencer,  however,  assuming  the  fact,  sets  about  its  explanation. 
The  agreeable  effect  produced  by  the  conciseness  of  metaphor  he  refers 
to  the  economy  of  ment;  effort  involved.  This  explanation  at  once 
discredits  itself.  As  a  m?  er  of  fact,  economy  of  mental  energy  is  not 
always  subserved  by'^  d  number  of  words.  A  few  more  words,  on 
the  contrary,  may  (.  it  .Icar  up  a  statement  so  that  less  effort  is  de- 
manded for  its  c(^n{\)  sion.  We  cannot,  then,  admit  Spencer's  law 
that  the  fewer  t^'-'^v  used  in  expressing  a  given  idea  the  easier  that 
idea  is  to  be  und^-%  'and  thus  the  greater  pleasure  is  secured  to  the 
reader.  We  maf/  v^ever,  admit  to  consideration  such  a  modified 
statement  as  this,  .i^t  a  conciseness  of  expression  in  the  metaphor 
which  does  conduce  to  the  economy  of  forced  mental  effort  on  the  part 
of  the  reader  may  be  pleasurable. 

But  this  statement,  substituting  as  in  effect  it  does,  the  principle  of 
stimulus  for  that  of  economy '  brings  us  to  a  different  series  of  questions. 
Does  the  conciseness  of  the  metaphor  conduce  to  its  stimulating  effect? 
And  is  this  stimulating  effect  the  source  of  the  pleasure  derived.-* 

The  first  inquiry  is  readily  answered.  The  brevity  of  the  meta- 
phor is  stimulating,  but  not  as  brevity.  ^  Reverting  to  the  foregoing 
account  of  the  process  set  up  by  a  metaphor  in  the  reader's  mind,  we 
see  that  this  process  is  induced  not  by  the  shortness  of  the  metaphorical 
expression  but  by  its  incompleteness,  its  fragmentary  and  suggestive 
character.  It  takes  no  fewer  words  to  speak  of  ' '  beaded  bubbles "  as 
"winking  at  the  brim'"*  of  the  beaker  than  to  say  that  they  were  burst- 
ing there,  or  breaking  or  collapsing.  But  in  the  second  instance,  the 
thought  is  expressed  in  its  completed  state.  The  rapid  extinction  of  a 
globular,  glistening  object  was  the  situation  at  first  presented  to  the 
writers  mind.  This  differentiated  itself  rapidly  into  the  sudden  disap- 
pearance of  a  bubble  by  bursting  and  that  of  an  eye  by  the  descent  of 
the  lid  over  it  as  in  winking.  Just  at  this  stage  of  the  thought's  develop- 
ment expression  took  place  and  the  bubbles  were  consequently  said  to 
be  "winking  at  the  brim."  The  reader  into  whose  mind  has  been 
flashed  abruptly  these  two  at  first  irreconcilable  images,  bursting  bub- 
bles and  winking  eyes,  is  for  an  instant  torn  between  them.  What  did 
the  writer  mean.'*  What  was  in  his  mind.-*  The  answer  dawns  upon  him 
in  the  composite  photograph  made  by  the  rapid  alternate  presentations 
of  the  two  images — the  shadowy  picture  of  a  globular  glistening  object 
suddenly  disappearing.  The  reader  was  compelled  to  this  resolution  of 
the  two  images  into  their  primeval  substance,  not  because  the  phrase 

1  We  have  seen  in  preceding  paragraphs  that  this  understanding  of  the  term  economy  is 
alone  capable  of  sustaining  Spencer's  theory. 

'Cf.  Sherman,  Analytics  of  Literature,  p.  67. 
*  Keats,  Oiie  to  a  Nightingali;, 


—  55  — 

was  short,  but  because  it  represented  a  state  of  mind  iny,    n\  sible 

unless  the   antecedent   state  were  known.      The  idea  pre;  en  as  so 

fragmentary  that  it  remained  meaningless  until  traced  to  its  soi  e,  yet 
so  pregnantly  suggestive  of  meaning  that  the  reader  was  all  but  co.iipelled 
to  trace  it. 

The  incomplete,  the  fragmentary,  the  -j-^nigmatic  character  of  the 
metaphor,  then,  not  its  brevity  J>er  se,  is  '.  ;^  cause  of  its  stimulating 
effect.  The  second  question,  whether  the  st  ^ulus  given  by  this  figure 
is  of  necessity  pleasurable,  we  shall  discuss  lai  jr  .vronnmtion  \vith  some 
other  explanations  which  lead  us  to  the  sam^e.  ^    v.^i/ 

The  implication  in  Cicero's  fourth  hypotbf  yj-Q-jt  the  pleasure  of 
metaphor  arises  largely  or  wholly  from  the  f aci  -  ^^  ges  are  thereb)' 
aroused  in  the  mind  has  been  made  as  well  by  m  jj  /slern  writers.'  It  >l^ 
seems  to  be  assumed  by  these  rhetoricians  ttiy^,,  ■<  mind  can  think 
either  in  images  or  in  abstractions,  and  that,  for  sq  e  reason,  it  prefers 
the  images,  so  that  metaphor,  which  induces  it  to  think  in  images  is 
more  pleasurable  than  plain  statement.  The  fallacy  of  this  assumption 
has,  I  think,  become  evident  in  our  previous  consideration  of  the  meta- 
phor-process. It  is  impossible  to  choose  between  thinking  in  images 
and  thinking  in  abstractions.  One  must  always  do  both — the  one  as  an 
earlier,  the  other  as  a  later  stage  in  the  development  of  the  same  idea. 
And  that  the  one  stage  is  inherently  any  more  pleasing  to  the  mind  than 
is  the  other  may  well  be  questioned. 

To  have  an  idea  presented  to  the  mind  at  the  earlier  stage  of  its 
development  may,  however,  be  more  pleasing  than  to  receive  it  later. 
And  this  possibly  is  what  the  writers  who  held  to  the  theory  of  the  mind's 
pleasure  in  images  really  mean.  In  this  case,  we  are  brought  back  once 
more  for  explanation  to  our  description  of  the  effect  of  metaphor  on  the 
reader. 

The  essential  difference,  as  we  have  seen,  between  the  presentation 
of  an  idea  in  the  metaphorical  and  in  the  prosaic  or  literal  stage,  lies  in 
the  fact  that  in  the  first  case  the  images  presented  to  the  mind  are  more 
vivid  than  when  plain  statement  is  offered,  and  the  process  of  their 
development  is  likely  to  be  somewhat  unfamiliar.  In  other  words  the 
mind  is  led  to  act  more  vigorously  than  usual  and  to  deal  with  new  mate- 
rial. Thus  we  find  ourselves  once  more  at  the  theory  of  stimulation  as 
the  effect  produced  by  the  metaphor,  and  our  way  is  again  blocked  by  the 
question — Is  this  stimulus  of  the  mind  on  the  part  of  metaphor  neces- 
sarily pleasurable.? 

Let  us  turn,  however,  to  Cicero's  first  theory.  As  stated,  it  seems 
to  imply  that  the  novelty  or  remoteness  of  the  images  aroused  by  the 
metaphor  accounts  for  the  pleasure  derived.  It  is  more  than  probable 
that  this  conception  was  obtained  from  Aristotle,  who  notes  "  an  air  of 
strangeness "  ^  as  conveyed  by  metaphor,  having  previously  stated  that 

1  Campbell,  P/ii/os.  of  Rhet.,  Bk.  Ill,  Ch.  I,  §  r.  Bascom  and  Morgan,  Philos.  of  Rhet., 
p.     244. 

» Rhetoric,  Bk.  Ill,  Ch.  II. 


—  56  — 

"it  is  proper  to  invest  the  language  with  a  foreign  air,  as  we  all  admire 
anything  which  is  out  of  the  way,  and  there  is  a  certain  pleasure  in  the 
object  of  wonder."  This  theory  has  not  found  favor  with  the  modern 
rhetoricians;  but  it  deserves  recognition,  as  bearing  some  relation  to  the 
hypothesis  last  discussed. 

The  air  of  strangeness,  observed  by  Aristotle,  is  not,  as  Cicero 
seems  to  think,  derived  from  the  remoteness  of  the  images  concerned, 
but  rather  from  the  novelty  of  their  origin  and  relationship.  This  is  but 
saying  once  more  that  the  mind  traverses  new  country  under  the  spur  of 
metaphor.  But  just  why  this  should  be  pleasurable  belongs  to  the  in- 
quiry which  has  been  deferred. 

Cicero's  second  theory,  which  alone  is  left  for  our  consideration, 
seems  to  hint  at  a  fundamental  aesthetic  principle — that  of  unity  in  var- 
iety. This  principle  has  been  implied  in  more  than  one  of  the  later 
explanations  of  the  pleasure  derived  from  metaphor.  We  find  it  in 
Whately's  notion,  borrowed,  as  he  says,  from  Dr.  A.  Smith,  that  "the 
more  remote  and  unlike  in  themselves  any  two  objects  are,  the  more  is 
the  mind  ....  gratified  by  the  perception  of  some  point  in  which  they 
agree."'  Kames  seems  to  imply  the  same  idea  in  his  comparison  of  a 
figure  which  has  two  constituents  to  "concordant  sounds  in  music. "^ 
Bain  says  that  an  "  emotional  similitude,"  under  which  head  falls  meta- 
phor, imparts  to  the  reader  ' '  a  shock  of  agreeable  surprise "  when  the 
comparison  possesses  both  novelty  and  remoteness.^  "In  the  assimila- 
ting operation  of  the  intellect,"  he  says,  "whereby  comparisons  are 
brought  from  very  remote  sources,  there  often  results  a  feeling  of  unex- 
pectedness, which  is  in  itself  an  agreeable  effect.*  In  these  statements, 
Bain  emphasizes  the  idea  of  the  metaphor  as  stimulating  the  mind, 
while  retaining  the  conception  of  unity  in  variety  as  the  source  of 
the  pleasure  afforded.  He  might  perhaps  agree  to  the  following  as  a 
comprehensive  statement  of  his  position:  Metaphor  gives  pleasure  to  the 
reader  by  stimulating  him  to  see  a  unity  in  apparent  diversity. 

At  any  rate,  whether  such  a  statement  as  this  represents  Bain's  po- 
sition or  not,  we  are  driven  to  consider  it  as  the  only  possible  interpre- 
tation of  the  unity- in-variety  hypothesis.  Unity  in  variety  is  not 
pleasurable  unless  it  acts  upon  the  observer,  unless  it  affects  him  posi- 
tively. If  the  metaphor  makes  the  reader  see  or  experience  unity  in 
variety  it  is  pleasurable.  Otherwise  it  may  possess  all  the  unified  variety 
in  the  world,  but  remain  inert;  incapable  of  producing  either  pleasure 
or  pain. 

We  are  now  ready  to  consider  in  detail  the  relation  of  the  stimulus 
given  by  the  metaphor  to  the  pleasure  afforded  by  this  figure.  We  have 
shown  that  the  pleasure-giving  effect  of  metaphor  is  not  due  to  its  brev- 
ity, as  some  have  thought,  nor  to  the  fact  that  it  brings  concrete  images 

i 

1  /i/s.  of  Khet.,  Pt.  Ill,  Ch.  II,  §  3. 
a  Els.  of  Crit.,  Ch.  XX,  §  7. 
•''  Jing.  Comp.  and  K/ift.,  Tt.  I,  p.  146. 
*  Eng.  Comp.  and  Rhet.,  Pt.  I,  p.  145. 


-57  — 

before  the  mind,  nor  directly  to  its  leading  the  mind  over  a  new  track. 
These  circumstances  may  indeed  conduce  to  the  stimulating  effect  of  the 
metaphor,  but  not  necessarily  to  its  pleasing  quality,  unless,  indeed, 
stimulus  is  of  necessity  pleasurable.  Such  a  proposition  as  this  cannot, 
of  course,  be  for  an  instant  allowed.  Stimulus  is  quite  as  likely  to  be 
disagreeable  as  pleasant.  If  the  first  stage  in  a  normal,  harmonious, 
life-fulfilling  activity,  it  will  be  felt  as  pleasurable;  if  initiating  an  activ- 
ity unsymmetrical,  abnormal,  destructive  of  the  organism,  it  will  be 
painful.' 

This  last  statement  may  perhaps  stand  as  a  loose  compound  of  the 
tests  for  a  pleasure-giving  activity  formulated  by  writers  upon  aesthetics. 
The  theory  upon  which  the  following  discussion  is  based  demands  a  fuller 
explanation  and  exacter  phrasing.  This  rough  summary  of  previous 
writers  serves,  however,  to  indicate  the  necessity  of  examining  the 
whole  activity,  not  merely  that  initial  stage  of  it  termed  popularly  the 
stimulus.'  And  this  whole  activity  in  whose  character  inheres  the  pleas- 
ing or  unpleasing  effect  of  metaphor  is  that  which  we  have  discussed 
in  this  chapter  as  set  up  in  the  mind  of  the  person  who  reads  a 
metaphor. 

Why,  we  may  ask,  should  such  an  activity  be  felt  by  the  reader  as 
pleasurable?  It  will  be  necessary  in  entering  upon  this  inquiry  to  define 
some  of  the  terms  used.  What,  for  instance,  is  meant  by  "pleasurable" 
in  the  aesthetic  sense? 

Feeling  in  general  we  shall  define'  as  the  subjective  reaction  of  a 
physical  attitude.  An  instinctive  movement  to  strike  an  assailant,  itself 
half-conscious  and  wholly  unintentional,  the  survival  of  a  long  series  of 
ancestral  habits,  reacts  at  once  upon  the  striker  first  as  a  vague  feeling 
of  anger,  then,  perhaps,  as  the  distincter  thought,  "I'll  fix  him,"  or 
"He  had  no  business  to."  Just  so  the  feeling  of  pleasure  is  the  indi- 
vidual's sense  of  a  certain  attitude  of  body,  one  which  involves  the  har- 
monious interplay  of  muscles  or  the  perfect  poise  of  physical  functions.* 
The  ' '  lines  of  composition  "  in  a  picture  give  us  pleasure  because  the  eyes 
in  following  them  move  harmoniously  with  one  another,  the  instinctive 
action  of  the  muscles  set  up  by  them  is  varied,  yet  with  a  certain  unity 
or  law,  the  breathing  is  symmetrical,  and  the  whole  body  is  in  a  state  of 
nicely  poised  activity.* 

Pleasure  is,  then,  our  feeling  of  harmonious  physical  action.     This 

^See  Grant  Allen,  Physiological  Aesthetics,  Ch.  II;  H.  R.  Marshall,  Pain,  Pleasure  and 
Aesthetics,  Ch.  n,  and  Aesthetic  Principles,  Ch.  11;  Wm.  James,  Principles  of  Psyehelogy,  Ch. 
XXV;  John  Dewey,  The  Theory  of  Emotion,  Psych.  Rev.,  Vol.  I,  pp.  553-569  and  Vol.  11,  pp. 
13-32;  Vernon  Lee  and  C.  Anstruther-Thomson,  Beauty  and  Ugliness,  Contemp.  Pev.,  Vol. 
LXXn,  pp.  544-569  and  667-688. 

*See    Dewey,    The  Reflex-Arc    Concept    in    Pyscliology^    Psych.    Rev.,    Vol.   m,    pp. 
357-370. 

'  Following  Dewey's  modification  of  James's  theory  of  emotion.  Psych.  Rev.,  Vol.  I,  pp. 
553-569.  and  n,  13-32. 

*  In  justice  to  Dr.  Dewey,  it  should  be  stated  that  he  nowhere  makes,  and  perhaps  would 
not  sanction,  this  application  of  his  theory  to  the  problems  of  aesthetics. 

*  Vernon  Lee  and  C.  Anstruther-Thomson,  Beauty  and  Ugliness,  Contemp.  Rev.,  Vol. 
LXXn,  pp.  544-569  and  667-688. 


—  58  — 

brings  us  very  close  to  Grant  Allen's  doctrine  of  pleasure  as  the  normal 
functioning  of  the  body '  and  Edward  Rowland  Sill's  statement  that 
beauty  has  a  life-giving  power .^ 

But  to  apply  this  theory  to  the  metaphor.  If  an  action  felt  as 
pleasurable  is  one  which  is  symmetrical  or  harmonious,  that  set  up  in 
the  reader  by  metaphor  must  be  symmetrical  or  harmonious  if  it  is  to 
give  pleasure.  And  so,  indeed,  it  is.  We  have  many  times  traced  it 
I  before,  in  its  intellectual  aspects.  It  consists  of  a  sudden  tension  in  the 
mind  between  the  two  incompatible  images  introduced,  a  resolution  of 
that  tension  in  the  perception  of  the  single  impression  or  sensation  out 
of  which  the  two  images  had  emerged,  the  subsequent  division  of  the 
original  impression  and  its  return  to  a  distincter  unity.  This  means,  of 
course,  in  the  technical  phrase,  an  intellectual  experience  of  unity  in 
variety. 

But  this  activity  set  up  by  the  metaphor  is  not  purely  cerebral. 
Other  parts  of  the  body  participate  in  it.  The  sudden  tension  brought 
about  in  the  mind  by  the  almost  simultaneous  introduction  of  the  two 
elements  in  the  metaphor  means  physically  a  sudden  catching  of  the 
breath,  a  sense  as  if  the  lungs  were  being  forced  wide  apart.  Anyone 
who  notes  his  sensations  while  reading  a  metaphor,  will,  I  doubt  not, 
discover  something  at  least  analogous  to  this  experience.  The  breath 
cannot  be  released  until  the  unity  has  been  reached.  Then,  with  a  sigh 
or  a  laugh,  it  is  let  go,  the  lungs  fall  together  and  one  feels  the  pleasure 
that  always  accompanies  a  lifting  tension,  if  it  has  not  been  unduly 
prolonged.' 

This  physical  experience  can  be,  I  think,  easily  accounted  for  in 
terms  of  Dr.  Dewey's  theory,  that  all  feeling  is  the  subjective  reaction  of 
a  bodily  attitude  once  useful  to  the  organism.  It  is  a  familiar  fact  that, 
as  Dr.  Dewey  puts  it,  "all  expectancy,  waiting,  suspended  effort,  etc., 
is  accompanied,  for  obvious  teleological  reasons,  with  taking  in  and 
holding  a  full  breath,  and  the  maintenance  of  the  whole  system  in  a  state 
of  considerable  tension.  Now  let  the  end  suddenly  'break,'  'dawn,* 
let  one  see  the  'point,'  and  the  energy  discharges.  .  .  .  This  sudden 
relaxation  of  strain,  so  far  as  occurring  through  the  medium  of  the 
breathing  and  vocal  apparatus  is  laughter."  And  later  the  statement  is 
made  that  "The  laugh  is  thus  a  phenomenon  of  the  same  general  kind 
as  the  sigh  of  relief. "  *  Either  phenomenon  may  take  place  as  the  reader 
vividly  experiences  a  metaphor.      I  should  say,  from  my  own  experience 

1  Physiological  Aesthetics,  Ch.  II. 

^  Principles  of  Criticism,  Atlantic  Monthly,  Nov.,  1885. 

'  Evidence  of  the  existence  of  this  tension  and  of  the  pleasurable  effect  of  its  breaking 
was  furnished,  outside  my  own  experiences,  in  the  course  of  some  experiments  made  by  me  in 
the  laboratory  of  psychology  at  the  University  of  Michigan  in  1895.  In  reading  to  several  hun- 
dred students,  taken  singly,  metaphors  selected  for  the  purpose,  I  noticed  the  grave,  intent,  ex- 
pectant look  which  was  visible  on  the  face  of  the  individual  while  the  first  words  were  being 
read,  break  into  a  sudden  smile  or  even  a  sub-vocal  laugh,  as  the  meaning  of  the  figure  flashed 
upon  his  mind, — that  is,  when  he  had  traced  back  the  two  conflicting  images  to  their  root  in  the 
speaker's  mind  and  was  thus  enabled  to  "see  how  he  got  it." 

^  Psych.  Rev.,  Vol.  I,  p.  559. 


—  59  — 

and  observation,  that  one  is  almost  certain  to  occur.  At  any  rate,  the 
sense  of  strain  and  of  relief,  whether  recognized  in  its  physical  manifesta- 
tions or  not,  will  be  recalled  by  most  sensitive  readers  as  concomitant 
with  their  enjoyment  of  a  metaphor. 

But  further,  as  soon  as  the  embryo  of  the  metaphor  comes  to  con- 
sciousness, it  begins  straightway  to  branch  and  divide.  Having  found  its 
beginning,  the  same  process  occurs  in  us  that  took  place  in  the  mind  of 
the  writer.  The  metaphor  grows  and  branches  into  two  main  trunks. 
We  follow  this  division  with  a  symmetrical  expansion  of  the  two  lungs, 
a  bracing  of  the  two  feet  on  the  floor,  a  sense  of  balance  ever  returning 
to  a  single  center  and  ever  distributing  itself  anew.  We  experience  the 
metaphor,  not  only  mentally  but  physically  as  well.  Its  reading  brings 
about  in  our  physical  organisms  harmonious  action  which  is  felt  by  us  as 
distinctly  pleasurable. 

The  pleasure  derived  from  the  reading  of  a  metaphor  may,  then,  be 
accounted  for  by  several  aesthetic  formulae.  It  may  be  subsumed  under 
the  general  principle  that  the  perception  of  unity  in  variety  affords  grat- 
ification to  the  mind;  for  the  metaphor,  as  we  have  shown,  impels  the 
mind  to  seek  a  pre-existing  unity  as  at  once  the  source  and  the  justifica- 
tion for  the  incongruous  variety  of  images  presented.  The  successful 
discovery  of  this  unity  doubtless  gives  pleasure  to  the  reader. 

Or,  accepting  Marshall's  doctrine '  and  that  implied  by  Dewey,  that 
relief  from  physical  tension,  not  prolonged  past  the  point  of  elasticity, 
is  pleasurable,  the  effect  of  metaphor  becomes  readily  comprehensible, 
since  it  induces  a  physical  strain  which  is  speedily  relieved  as  the  unity 
of  the  two  images  in  the  figure  flashes  into  consciousness. 

Or,  finally,  if  a  normal,  harmonious  activity  of  the  body  be  pleasur- 
able,^ metaphor  is  so,  for  it  sets  up  certain  physical  activities  which  are 
both  normal  and  symmetrical,  both  unified  and  various. 

The  effect  of  metaphor  upon  the  reader  is,  then,  agreeable,  be- 
cause metaphor  stimulates  him  to  actions,  both  of  mind  and  of  body, 
which  fulfil  the  law  of  unity -in  variety,  which  offer  an  outlet  for  pent 
energies,  which  establish  a  symmetrical  exercise,  a  moving  poise  for  the 
physical  functions,  and  which  consequently  are  felt  as  pleasure. 

1  The  doctrine  of  relief  from  tension  falls  under  Marshall's  principle  that  the  outlet  of 
energy  repressed  for  a  limited  time  is  pleasurable.  The  breath  is  held  for  an  instant,  the  mus- 
cles are  rigid.  The  lungs  and  the  muscles  are  then  allowed  to  act  and  the  feeling  of  pleasure 
succeeds.     See  Pain^  Pleasure  and  Aesthetics,  pp.  171,  209-215. 

^  Beauty  and  Ugliness,  Contemp.  Rev.,  Vol.  LXXII,  pp.  544-569,  667-688. 


CHAPTER    V. 

PATHOLOGICAL    FORMS    OF    METAPHOR. 

The  growth  of  the  normal  metaphor  has  been  traced  as  it  takes 
place  both  in  the  mind  of  the  writer  and  in  that  of  the  reader.  There 
are,  however,  certain  pathological  forms  of  metaphor  which  lie  outside  ot 
the  field  already  covered.  These  we  shall  discuss  briefly  in  the  light  of 
the  principles  disclosed  in  preceding  chapters. 

Bad  metaphor  is  of  two  varieties^)  The  first  we  may  call  conceits 
or  inverted  metaphors  ;^e  second  mixed  or  inconsistent  metaphors. 

Conceits  are  what  the  old  rhetoricians  called  "frigid  metaphors." 
They  may  appear  either  as  artificial  throughout,  or  as  beginning  in  a  nat- 
ural and  spontaneous  process  but  perverted  later  into  conceit.  That  is, 
the  metaphor  may  be  wholly,  or  only  partially,   "frigid." 

The  first  species  of  conceit,  that  which  is  artificial  from  the  begin- 
ning, we  have  already  touched  upon  in  the  previous  consideration  of 
poetic  metaphor.^  It  is  that  figure  which  results  when  its  maker,  in- 
stead of  following  the  typical  metaphor-process  from  a  dimly  per- 
ceived situation  to  its  clearly  discriminated  parts,  inverts  this  order 
and  begins  with  the  two  images  which  he  welds  into  one  by  virtue  of 
some  resemblance  between  them.  The  outlines  of  this  process  have 
been  presented  elsewhere^  and  only  a  few  additional  details  will  here  be 
necessary. 

The  maker  of  a  conceit,  having  noted  that  he  in  reading  a  metaphor 
establishes  between  its  two  constituent  images  a  certain  connection  by 
means  of  resemblance,  or  analogy  of  situation,  concludes  that  the  meta- 
phor was  created  by  the  same  process,  in  fact  that  all  metaphor  comes 
into  being  by  tacking  two  images  together  by  means  of  resemblance. 
He  sets  out  to  make  a  metaphor  in  this  way  and  succeeds  in  placing  side 
by  side  two  images  between  which  exist  a  certain  connection.  So  far  as 
verbal  structure  is  concerned,  he  has  achieved  a  metaphor;  but  he  has 
done  so  by  a  process  directly  the  converse  of  that  taking  place  in  the 
poet's  mind. 

This  process  of  conceit-making  has  perhaps  never  been  more  exactly 
represented  than  in  the  famous  passage  from  Richard  H: 

"  I  have  been  studying  how  I  may  compare 
This  prison  where  I  live  unto  the  world; 
And  for  because  the  world  is  populous 
And  here  is  not  a  creature  but  myself, 
I  cannot  do  it;  yet  I'll  hammer  it  out. 
My  brain  I'll  prove  the  female  to  my  soul, 
My  soul  the  father;  and  these  two  beget 
A  generation  of  still-breeding  thoughts, 
And  these  same  thoughts  people  this  little  world, 
In  humors  like  the  people  of  this  world, 
For  no  thought  is  contented." 

>  Chapter  IL 
» Chapter  IL 


—  61  — 

Each  thought  is  then  described  as  a  person,  and  the  conceit  becomes 
more  and  more  artificial  with  each  added  detail. 

These  are  the  elaborate  absurdities  which  might  easily  be  expected 
from  a  man  who  was  continually  studying  how  he  might  compare  one 
thing  to  another.  He  would  always  succeed  in  doing  so,  but  the  result 
must  bear  to  the  legitimate  metaphor  such  a  relation  as  the  small  boy's 
walking  on  his  hands  does  to  the  normal  method  of  locomotion.  Un- 
doubtedly one  could  walk  on  his  hands,  but  why  should  he.^ 

Such  a  question  recurs  continually  in  reading  the  attenuated  Eliza- 
bethan conceits.  There  is  in  them  so  much  ado  about  nothing,  such 
meaningless  filagree  of  images,  that  patience  fails  to  read  continuously  a 
long  succession  of  them.  The  following  verses  will  perhaps  serve  as  a 
sufficient  illustration  of  this  type  of  conceit: 

"  Lady,  the  melting  crystal  of  your  eye 
Like  frozen  drops  upon  your  cheeks  did  lie; 
Mine  eye  was  dancing  on  them  with  delight, 
And  saw  love's  flames  within  them  burning  bright. 
Which  did  mine  eye  entice 
To  play  with  burning  ice; 
But  O,  my  heart,  thus  sporting  with  desire. 
My  careless  eye  did  set  my  heart  on  fire. 

0  that  a  drop  from  such  a  sweet  fount  fljring 
Should  flame  like  fire  and  leave  my  heart  a-dying! 

1  bum,  my  tears  can  never  drench  it 

TiU  in  your  eyes  I  bathe  my  heart  and  quench  it: 
But  there,  alas,  love  with  his  fire  lies  sleeping. 
And  all  conspire  to  bum  my  heart  with  weeping."  * 

It  is  possible  to  disclose  under  this  mass  of  syllabub  the  plain  idea 
that  undoubtedly  stood  in  the  mind  of  the  writer.  He  wished  to  say 
something  like  this:  ' '  You  seemed  at  first  cold,  but  later  I  saw  a  gleam 
of  love  in  your  eyes  that  awakened  my  love  for  you.  This  love  has 
grown  so  intense  that  it  cannot  be  assuaged  even  by  possession  of  you — 
nay,  that  will  only  increase  my  passion."  But  of  course  it  would  not  do 
in  poetry  for  him  to  present  his  idea  in  this  bald,  prosaic  form;  so  he 
hunts  about  for  comparisons.  They  lie  easy  to  his  hand.  Anything 
cold  is  of  course  likened  to  ice;  and  love,  as  hot  and  consuming,  to 
flames  To  be  set  on  fire  had  even  at  this  early  period  been  long  accred- 
ited as  the  synonym  for  being  inspired  with  love  and  ' '  burning  ice  "  for 
the  chills  and  fever  of  the  tender  passion.  Hence  the  conceit,  which 
might  be  diagrammatically  represented  as  a  series  of  paired  ideas, 
these  paired  ideas  constituting,  as  the  writer  fondly  supposes,  a  met- 
aphor, but  in  reality  only  representing  a  manufactured  substitute 
for  it. 

So  much  for  that  form  of  conceit  which  is  artificial  alike  in  its  gen- 

*  From  Thomas  Greares's  S<mgs  of  Sundry  Kinds,  1604. 


—  62  — 

esis  and  in  its  further  development.  The  second  variety  of  conceit,  how- 
ever, differs  from  this  in  having  a  legitimate  origin. 

One  of  the  best  possible  illustrations  of  this  species  is  that  quoted 
by  Blair  from  Young's  Night    Thoughts.      Old  age  should,  says  Young, 

"Walk  thoughtful  on  the  silent  solemn  shore 
Of  that  vast  ocean  it  must  sail  so  soon; 
And  put  good  works  on  board;  and  wait  the  wind 
That  shortly  blows  us  into  worlds  unknown." 

Blair's  comment  upon  this  is:  "The  first  two  lines  are  uncommonly 
beautiful;  ....  but  when  he  continues  the  metaphor  to  'putting  good 
works  on  board  and  waiting  the  wind '  it  plainly  becomes  strained,  and 
sinks  in  dignity."  ^ 

That  is,  the  first  two  lines  may  well  have  represented  the  metaphor- 
stage  of  thought  in  the  poet's  mind,  the  stage  in  which  a  nebulous  feel- 
ing of  awe  in  the  presence  of  the  unknown  has  begun  to  differentiate,  on 
the  one  side  into  the  image  of  a  voyager  gazing  from  the  shore  upon  an 
unfamiliar  ocean,  which  he  is  soon  to  traverse,  and  on  the  other  side 
the  thought  of  old  age  in  the  prospect  of  death.  We  feel  that  these  two 
ideas  have  emerged  somewhat  distinctly  when  we  have  finished  the  sec- 
ond line.  We  can  see  the  two  elements  in  the  figure  as  at  least  partially 
disentangled  from  one  another.  The  metaphor  is  well  on  the  road  to- 
ward plain  statement. 

But  Young  is  not  content  to  let  it  go  on  its  way,  its  task  fulfilled, 
and  trust  to  a  new  vision  for  a  new  metaphor.  He  must  overhaul  the 
fleeting  figure,  seize  upon  certain  elements  in  each  of  the  two  separated 
members  and  set  them  alongside  each  other,  fastening  them  together  by 
lines  of  perceived  resemblance.  Thus  the  traveller  putting  his  luggage 
and  provisions  on  board  and  old  age  stowing  away  a  stock  of  good  works 
upon  which  to  support  itself  through  the  ordeal  of  death  are  firmly  spliced 
together  and  presented  to  the  reader  as  a  figure.  They  do  not,  how- 
ever, truly  represent  a  metaphor,  that  is,  the  expression  of  a  perception 
just  beginning  to  differentiate,  but  rather  the  clever  but  artificial  imita- 
tion formed  by  joining  two  images  previously  unrelated.  The  normal 
metaphor-process  has  here  merged  into  the  conceit.  At  the  end  of  the 
second  verse  Young's  figure  passed  from  spontaneity  to  artificiality,  from 
naturalness  to  pretense. 

In  the  same  manner  Shakespeare's  "Seven  Ages"  is  felt  by  the 
reader  to  be  essentially  a  conceit.     The  exclamation 

"All  the  world's  a  stage 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players," 

was  doubtless  to  its  writer  spontaneous  and  vital  enough,  though  through 
familiarity,  it  has  become  somewhat  formal  to  most  of  us.  But  the  la- 
bored antithesis  of  the  following  details  belongs  to  the  conceit-  rather  than 
to  the  metaphor-process. 

1  Lectures  on  Rhetoric  and  Belles  Lettres,  Lecture  XV. 


—  63  — 

The  lament  of  Cardinal  Wolsey  hardly  escapes  the  definition  of  a 
strained  metaphor: 

"This  is  the  state  of  man;  to-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hope;  to-morrow  blossoms, 
And  bears  his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him; 
The  third  day  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost; 
And — when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a-ripening — nips  his  root, 
And  then  he  falls." 

The  sudden  ruin  of  a  great  man  might  easily  be  perceived  by  one 
whose  attention  was  first  vehemently  directed  toward  it  as  a  vague,  yet 
powerful,  image  of  glory  and  abundance  suddenly  exchanged  for  desola- 
tion. Out  of  this  confused  perception  would,  however,  soon  emerge 
into  distinctness  the  images  of  the  ruin  of  a  great  man  and  the  blasting 
of  a  tree.  So  far  the  metaphor  is  normal.  But  the  Cardinal,  perceiv- 
ing at  this  point  that  he  has  a  good  thing,  specifically  a  metaphor,  wishes 
to  make  it  better,  to  make  more  of  it.  He  therefore  proceeds  to  do  so 
by  picking  out  certain  features  of  the  ruined  tree  and  certain  others  of 
the  ruined  man,  and  setting  them  over  against  each  other  with  a  line  of 
connection  between.  Here  again,  then,  we  have  the  spontaneous, 
genuine  metaphor  transmuted  into  the  conceit. 

A  recent  and  far  more  reprehensible  instance  of  the  strained  meta- 
phor, among  many  which  might  be  quoted,  is  the  following  sentence 
from  Mrs.  Deland's  Philip  and  His  Wife:  "It  is  generally  so  with  a 
girl;  the  spoken  word  has  to  fall  like  some  subtle  chemical  into  the 
luminous  nebula  of  bliss,  to  crystalize  it  into  a  jewel  that  she  can  recog- 
nize, and  claim  and  wear  as  the  crown  of  life.' 

Here  the  metaphor  of  the  spoken  word  as  the  agent  which  crystal- 
lizes the  vague  shining  nebula  of  an  unrecognized  love  may  be  genuine. 
But  when  the  two  ideas  of  the  definition  of  the  undefined  situation  and 
the  crystalization  of  a  nebulous  substance  ^  have  distinctly  emerged  from 
the  figure,  one  feels  the  artificiality  of  setting  over  against  the  jeweled 
precipitate  of  the  physical  process,  the  sense  of  acknowledged  love 
which  results  from  the  new  status  of  the  immaterial  situation.  There 
may  be  a  resemblance  between  these  two  things,  but  it  is  not  a  resem- 
blance sufficiently  obvious  ever  to  have  presented  itself  to  the  writer  as 
total  identity.  It  had  to  be  sought  for  specifically  in  order  that  two  ob- 
jects might  be  united  in  a  figure.  And  the  result  of  thus  uniting  them  is 
not  metaphor,  but  conceit. 

In  all  these  cases  last  cited,  a  normal  metaphor  has  become  abnor- 
mal; a  natural  metaphor  artificial,  both  the  initial  and  the  final  states 
with  the  transition  process  being  apparent  in  the  one  figure.  This  kind 
of  conceit  thus  presents   a   curious  mixture  of  types,  and  well  repays 

1  P.  98. 

2  Evidently  a  gas,  out  of  which,  by  dropping  in  "a  subtle  chemical"  a  jewel  is 
precipitated !  «.     ^^^^  -^-■-,~--^ 

X3NIVEHSITYJ) 


—  64  — 

study,  as  the  close  juxtaposition  of  the  false  and  the  true  metaphor- 
processes  serves  to  illuminate  each. 
i  The  effect  of  conceit  upon  the  reader  should  be  noted  as  conspicu- 

ously different   from   that   produced  by  legitimate  metaphor.      In  both 
cases  the  reader  attempts  to  trace  back  the  two  images  to  their  root  in 
the  first  vague  perception  of  the  writer.     When  this  is  done  in  the  case 
of  genuine  m.etaphor,  the  reader  feels  confident  that  the  writer  did  truly 
I    experience  the  shadowy  sensation  which  has  been  thus  reconstructed.    It 
I    is  a  sensation  quite  possible,  quite  natural.     The  resemblance  between 
'    the  two  objects  is  so  obvious  that  it  might  easily  have  been  seen  at  a 
first  hurried  glance  as  total  identity. 

But  in  the  case  of  the  conceit  no  such  assurance  is  possible. 
The  resemblance  is  so  unessential,  so  obscure,  so  tenuous,  or  so  over- 
shadowed by  more  conspicuous  dissimilarities,  that  the  reader  cannot 
conceive  of  any  person's  ever  having  seen  it  as  the  complete  identity  of 
the  two  perceptions.  The  experience  seems  quite  impossible.  The 
metaphor  does  not  ring  true.  The  writer  is  convicted  of  falsehood  to 
his  own  vision  of  things.  Not  really  having  seen  the  two  situations  as 
one,  he  has  nevertheless  affected  to  do  so,  by  imitating  the  form  of  ex- 
pression peculiar  to  such  an  experience.  It  is  the  more  or  less  con- 
scious realization  of  this  fact  which  gives  to  the  conceit  its  peculiar 
flavor  of  artificiality,  and  makes  it  essentially  unpleasing  to  the  sensitive 
reader. 
-^  Mixed  metaphor,  like  conceit,  has  two  species.lv  Metaphor  may  be 

mixed  with  another  metaphor  ol:  with  a  plain  statement.  The  origin  of 
each  of  these  species,  however,  is  the  same.  If  one  wished  to  be  para- 
doxical, he  might  say  that  metaphor  is  mixed  for  one  reason  only,  be- 
cause it  has  ceased  to  be  a  metaphor.  Though  maintaining  the  figura- 
tive form  it  has  become,  in  the  mind  of  the  speaker,  a  literal  statement. 
Let  us  examine  some  typical  cases.  Thoreau  furnishes  an  amusing 
specimen  of  the  mixed  metaphor.  "It  (the  wintergreen  blossom)  is 
a  very  pretty  little  chandelier  of  a  flower,  set  to  adorn  the  forest  floor." 
Here  the  dim  sense  of  a  small  bulbous  something  has  become 
differentiated  into  the  two  images  of  the  wintergreen  blossom  and  a  '  'lit- 
tle chandelier."  The  writer  has,  in  fact,  gone  further  than  this.  He  has 
seen,  albeit  perhaps  not  quite  explicitly,  that  the  flower  and  the  chandelier 
are  alike  in  shape  and  situation,  both  being  little  bulbous  objects  depend- 
ing from  something.  The  flower  is  then  recognized  as  a  small  roundish 
growth  suspended  from  its  stem;  the  chandelier  is  forgotten:  the  figure 
has  become  plain  statement:  and  the  writer  finds  no  difficulty  in  seeing 
this  little  drooping  blossom  as  an  adornment  upon  the  forest  "floor." 
The  second  figure  does  not  jar  with  the  first,  for  the  first  has  ceased  to 
be  figurative.  It  is  not,  in  the  writer's  mind,  a  chandelier  which  adorns 
the  floor,  but  a  bell-shaped  flower.  There  is  no  incongruity  to  the 
writer,  nor  yet  to  a  reader  who  reconstructs  so  rapidly  the  writer's  first 

'^Journals,  Quoted  in  the  Dial,  Oct.  i,  1896,  p.  180. 


—  65  — 

figure,  and  reduces  it  so  completely  to  plain  statement,  that  the  chande- 
lier has  passed  from  active  consciousness  before  the  floor  appears.  To 
a  reader,  however,  whose  mental  processes  are  in  this  instance  less  rapid 
than  those  of  the  writer,  the  images  are  incongruous  and  the  metaphor 
is  "  mixed." 

The  same  swift  reduction  of  metaphor  to  plain  statement  and  the 
subsequent  introduction  of  another  metaphor  incompatible  with  the  first 
is  seen  in  the  following  sentence  from  Hall  Caine's  The  Manxman. 
' '  Honor  dem.anded  that  she  should  be  firm  as  a  rock  in  blotting  Philip 
from  her  soul. "  ^  * '  Firm  as  a  rock  "  is  a  figurative  phrase  so  frequently 
used  that  it  is  almost  instantaneously  developed  into  plain  statement. 
Though  still  retaining  the  metaphoric  wording,  it  has  become  practically 
equivalent  to  the  literal  adjective  "firm,"  in  a  comparative  or  superla- 
tive degree.  The  image  of  the  rock  obtrudes  itself  for  no  appreciable 
time  into  the  consciousness.  It  passes  like  a  flash,  leaving  in  the  mind 
of  the  writer  only  the  consciousness  of  the  plain  statement,  '  'she  should 
be  very  firm."  Upon  this,  then,  easily  follows  the  metaphor  "in  blot- 
ting Philip  from  her  soul. "  The  writer's  thought  has  not  imagined  a  rock 
as  blotting  out  something.  So  far  as  he  is  concerned,  there  are  not  two 
metaphors  whose  elements  interfere  with  each  other,  but  only  one  which 
is  perfectly  consonant  with  the  literal  statements  surrounding  it. 

The  following  excerpt  from  a  student's  essay  illustrates  the  same 
process:  "As  evening  approaches,  the  sky  assumes  many  brilliant  col- 
ors, an  ever-changing  kaleidoscope  of  beauty,  which  seems  to  bend 
softly  over  all  as  if  in  blessing."  The  vague  impression  of  varied 
and  rapidly  shifting  colors  has  separated  into  the  two  images  of  the 
sky  as  it  appears  on  this  particular  evening  and  the  sight  pre- 
sented by  looking  through  a  kaleidoscope.  But  the  two  cannot 
long  remain  distinct  in  the  mind.  They  unite  again  in  the  per- 
ception of  brilliant  and  changeful  coloring  as  the  connection  be- 
tween them,  the  sky  is  seen  clearly  to  be  gorgeously  tinted  and  the 
kaleidoscope  disappears  from  the  writer's  mind.  The  bright-hued  sky 
may  now  be  said  to  "bend  softly  over  all  as  if  in  blessing,"  with  no 
thought  of  a  kaleidoscope  as  flexible  or  sinuous.  The  account  with  that 
toy  is  closed.  The  writer  is  now  dealing  only  with  the  sky,  whose  close 
curve  over  the  earth  is  felt  dimly  to  be  one  with  the  bending  of  a  per- 
son's body  in  the  act  of  blessing. 

Mary  Hallock  Foote  speaks  in  this  wise  of  her  hero's  personal 
comeliness:      "His  rich-blooded  beauty  would  have  wrung  the  hearts  of 

susceptible  maidens Like  the  plume  of  Navarre  it  would  have 

blazed  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  and  would  have  been  quenched,  per- 
haps, on  one  of  those  reefs  of  the  dead,  which  showed,  after  the  battle, 
where  the  wildest  shocks  of  assault  had  met  the  sternest  resistance."^ 

Here  is  a  rapid  succession  of  metaphors.  This  beauty  was  the 
plume   of  Navarre.      Being  a  plume,    it  blazed.      Being  a  fire,    it  was 

•p-255. 

»  The  Led-Horse  Claim,  Ch.  II. 


—  66  — 

quenched, — on  a  reef.  This  reef  was  a  heap  of  dead  men.  We  can 
readily  see  how  a  man's  beauty  might  be,  for  situation  and  for  conspi- 
cuousness,  the  plume  of  Navarre.  We  are  prepared  to  admit  that  it 
may  blaze,  or  even  that  a  plume  may  do  so, — it  seems  not  quite  certain 
which  the  writer  meant.  Beauty  may  also  be  quenched  as  a  flame. 
But  that  it  should  be  quenched  on  a  reef  is  at  first  quite  incredible.  The 
assertion  can,  however,  easily  be  accounted  for.  Something  goes  out, 
disappears,  is  destroyed.  That  something  becomes,  in  an  instant,  more 
clearly  discriminated  into  two  or  three  elements,  say  a  flame  which  is 
extinguished,  and  beauty  which  is  destroyed.  The  two,  first  dimly  per- 
ceived as  one,  soon  become  recognizable  as  different  things  which  only 
resemble  each  other.  The  resemblance  between  them  then  appears  dis- 
tinctly as  that  of  a  common  fate.  Each  is  destroyed.  The  writer  is 
now  enabled  to  say  to  herself  in  thought,  "His  beauty  would  have  been 
destroyed."  But  where .-*  The  clumps  of  dead  bodies  present  themselves 
to  her  eye  as  reefs  in  the  sea.  There  is  no  reason  why  beauty  should 
not  be  destroyed  on,  or  against,  a  reef;  so  the  two  figures  are  juxtaposed 
with  no  sense  of  unfitness  such  as  must  have  made  itself  felt  had  the 
image  of  a  quenched  flame  obtruded  itself  into  the  consciousness. 

The  following  sentence,  for  which  I  am  again  indebted  to  a  stu- 
dent's essay,  contains  no  less  than  three  distinct  metaphors,  each  incon- 
sistent with  every  other:     "When   the  law  becomes  distorted 

there  is  seething  and  discontent  until  the  yoke  has  been  discarded." 
The  law  as  "distorted"  implies  an  image  of  a  stick  or  some  similar 
object  twisted  out  of  its  original  shape,  "seething"  suggests  disquie- 
tude in  water,  "yoke"  the  animal  to  whose  neck  it  is  fitted  as  well  as 
the  people  upon  whom  the  law  has  been  imposed.  Such  a  combination 
of  metaphors  is  possible  only  when  at  least  two  of  them  have  passed  into 
plain  statement,  as  is  doubtless  the  case  here.  The  words  "distorted" 
and  "seething"  may  have  been  used  with  almost  no  figurative  idea 
behind  them.  They  have  become  so  familiar  that,  like  our  "rosy 
cheeks,"  "fiery  temper"  or  " pearly  teeth, "  they  are  but  linguistic  sur- 
vivals of  a  dualistic  stage  of  perception  long  become  unified.  At  any 
rate,  they  must  have  become  literal  statement  in  the  writer's  mind  before 
they  could  have  been  combined  or  a  third  metaphor  added  to  them. 

Of  the  metaphor  which  is  mixed  with  plain  statement,  a  few  exam- 
ples will  suffice,  since  its  explanation  is  the  same  as  that  given  for  the 
mixture  of  metaphor  with  metaphor.  That  one  from  Vergil  commented 
on  by  Quintilian,  "Ferrumque  armare  veneno,"*  is  easily  accounted  for. 
"Armare"  has  been  reduced  to  the  plain  statement  "to  equip."  The 
steel  can  be  equipped  or  furnished  with  poison,  though  not  armed 
with  it. 

In  the  following  sentences  the  metaphor  has  clearly  become  literal 
in  the  writer's  mind.  "He  might  at  any  moment  land  headlong  in  the 
seething  waters  below."*     "Every  cloud,  you  know,  has  its  own   silver 

^Aen.  IX,  773.      Quintilian,  Institutes,  Bk.  VIII,  Ch.  VI,  §14. 
*From  a  student's  essay. 


—  67  — 

lining,  and  may  the  cloud  be  ever  so  dark,  should  we  not  try  to  roll  it 
back,  that  its  hidden  brightness  may  be  seen,  and  we  may  understand 
all  the  goodness  there  is  in  it  for  us?" 

"To  land"  means  no  longer  to  attain  land,  in  the  specific  sense, 
but  simply  to  arrive,  to  reach  a  goal.  Hence  one  may  "land"  in  water 
as  easily  as  on  terra  firma.  That  ' '  every  cloud  has  its  silver  lining " 
has  become  only  the  conventional  phrase  indicating  that  every  trouble 
contains  some  good.  The  second  writer  is,  therefore,  only  continuing 
upon  the  same  line  of  prosaic  thought  when  she  exhorts  us  to  try  to  ' '  un- 
derstand all  the  goodness  there  is  in  it  (trouble)  for  us."  She  has  not 
mi.xed  metaphor  with  plain  statement,  for  she  had  in  reality  no  meta- 
phor, but  two  literal  statements  not  in  the  least  incongruous  with  one 
another. 

Mixed  metaphor,  then,  in  each  of  its  varieties  is  not  mixed  fromV' 
the  writer's  point  of  view.  If  it  were  he  would  be  as  incapable  of  mak- 
ing as  is  the  reader  of  reconstructing  it.  It  is  always  the  reader  who 
makes  the  mixed  metaphor,  not  the  writer.^  This  statement  is  not 
intended  as  a  defense  but  only  as  an  explanation  of  the  essential  nature 
of  this  phenomenon. 

Mixed  metaphor  takes  place,  we  may  say,  whenever  a  writer,  hav- 
ing used  a  metaphor,  carries  it  in  thought  to  plain  statement  and  pro- 
ceeds to  develop  this  plain  statement,  which  he  has  not  expressed,  by 
means  of  another  metaphor,  whose  images  jar  with  those  of  the  first,  or 
by  means  of  a  plain  statement  inconsistent  with  one  of  the  images  in  the 
preceding  metaphor.  The  rapidity  with  which  the  figure  is  reduced  to  a 
literal  idea  and  the  writer's  forgetfulness  of  its  earlier  estate  serve  to 
bring  about  the  mixture. 

The  rhetoricians  are  accustomed  to  say  that  the  mixed  metaphor 
may  be  avoided  by  the  writer  if  he  will  only  picture  its  constituents 
vividly,  in  which  case  their  inconsistency  will  appear  to  him.  This 
means,  of  course,  that  he  is  to  detain  in  consciousness  the  earlier  stage 
of  the  metaphor  while  he  writes,  in  order  that  no  element  be  introduced 
which  may  jar  with  its  images.  And  it  means,  furthermore,  that  the 
use  of  a  merely  conventional  metaphor  is  dangerous,  for  in  this  case  it  is 
well-nigh  impossible  to  hold  the  figurative  stage  in  consciousness,  so 
automatic  and  instantaneous  has  become  the  process  of  its  reduction  to 
plain  statement.  The  writer  is,  therefore,'  very  likely  to  associate  with 
it  some  image  which  seems  incongruous  to  such  readers  as  still  taste  the 
metaphor-flavor  in  the  dying  figure;  and  to  such  the  metaphor  will  be 
"mixed." 

^  When  the  reader  does  not  mix  the  metaphor,  as  often  happens  if  he  follows  the  evolution 
of  the  writer's  thought  precisely  and  with  equal  rapidity,  he  is  likely  to  regard  the  objections 
made  to  that  metaphor  as  quite  perverse  and  meaningless.  The  defense  of  mixed  metaphor  as 
a  species  may  even  be  attempted,  as  by  E.  B.  Bax  in  the  Ethics  of  Socialism,  who  asserts  that 
"  A  great  deal  of  the  pretended  fuss  made  about  confusion  of  metaphor  is  cant.  All  language  is 
more  or  less  metaphorical,  and  no  one  has  ever  shown  the  slightest  rational  ground  why  one 
should  not  pass  from  one  metaphor  to  another,  even  in  the  same  sentence."     (Pp.  94-5.) 


SUMMARY  OF  CONCLUSIONS. 

The  foregoing  study  of  metaphor  yields  six  main  conclusions: 

I.  The  existing  definitions  and  treatnients  of  metaphor  are  quite 
inadequate.  They  content  themselves  with  a  mere  external  description 
of  the  body  of  this  figure  as  it  stands  completed,  or  they  imply  a  genesis 
purely  mechanical  and  psychologically  impossible.  A  more  searching 
study  is  needed,  that  shall  base  itself  upon  the  laws  of  thought-develop- 
ment. 

II.  The  philologists  are  right  when  they  say  that  radical  metaphor 
is  the  naive,  unconscious  act  of  an  awakening  intelligence.  They  are 
wrong  when  they  explain  this  metaphor  as  the  ' '  transference  "or  "  ex- 
tension "  of  meaning,  such  a  process  demanding  a  degree  of  intellectual 
discrimination  which  does  not  yet  exist  on  the  part  of  the  speaker. 
Radical  metaphor  is  simply  the  expression  in  language  of  the  earliest 
stage  of  perception,  the  stage  which  consists  of  the  first  vague  sensuous 
impression  of  a  situation.  This  impression  is  as  yet  so  undefined  that  it 
may  be  received  from  two  situations  actually  different,  but  resembling 
each  other  and  hence  capable  of  seeming  identical  to  the  undiscrimina- 
ting  mind  of  the  speaker.  Thus  the  same  name  may  be  used  to  express 
two  differing  situations,  which  are  not  yet  recognized  as  differing  because 
of  the  vagueness  with  which  they  are  perceived.  This  use  of  the  same 
name  to  indicate  different  situations,  though  called  radical  metaphor,  is 
to  the  speaker  no  metaphor  at  all,  since  for  him  there  are  not  two  situ- 
ations, but  only  one.  The  metaphor  appears  only  when  the  hearer  re- 
cognizes the  fact  that  these  two  situations  are  in  reality  two.  The  radi- 
cal metaphor  is  thus  a  creation  of  the  hearer,  not  of  the  speaker.  And 
it  indicates  that  the  hearer  has  reached  a  stage  of  intellectual  discrimin- 
ation beyond  that  attained  by  the  speaker. 

III.  The  so-called  ' '  poetic  metaphor  "  is  not,  as  the  rhetoricians 
have  always  told  us,  an  artificial  structure,  manufactured  for  the  sake  of 
producing  a  certain  effect  upon  the  hearer,  by  splicing  together,  with  a 
rope  of  resemblance,  two  objects  or  images  from  different  sources. 
Rather  it  is  the  natural  spontaneous  expression  of  the  writer's  perception 
which  has  now  reached  the  stage  of  development  next  following  that 
which  the  radical  metaphor  represents.  The  dim  sense  of  a  single  situa- 
tion has  started  to  differentiate  and  two  distinct  elements  begin  to 
emerge  from  the  homogeneous  mass.  If  expression  takes  place  just  at 
the  moment  when  the  two  prime  elements  in  the  figure  are  beginning  to 
disclose  themselves,  we  have  the  poetic  metaphor.  Radical  and  poetic 
metaphor  thus  differ  not  in  genesis,  nor  in  essential  character,  but  only 
in  the  degree  of  development  attained  by  the  perception  which  each  re- 
presents. 

IV.  The  growth  of  the  perception,  carried  a  step  further,  gives 
rise  to  the  simile,  in  which  the  two  prime  elements  of  the  figure  have  so 


—  69  — 

far  separated  that  they  are  seen  no  longer  as  one  situation  but  as  dis- 
tinctly different  objects  connected  by  a  certain  resemblance  or  analogy. 
If  this  resemblance  is  seen  only  as  a  resemblance,  the  exact  point  in 
which  it  holds  being  as  yet  undisclosed,  we  have  the  less-developed  form 
of  simile;  if  the  precise  nature  of  the  resemblance  is  apparent  to  the 
writer,  the  simile  in  its  further-developed  form.  A  still  wider  separa- 
tion of  the  two  constituents  and  a  complete  independence  of  the  resem- 
blance between  them  comes  about  as  a  result  of  the  further  develop- 
ment of  the  perception  and  is  expressed  as  "plain"  or  literal  statement. 
The  rhetoricians  have  erred  in  making  the  simile  antecedent  to  the 
metaphor  either  logically  or  chronologically,  as  well  as  in  making  literal 
speech  the  norm  and  defining  metaphor  as  a  variation  from  that.  Met- 
aphor must  precede  simile  in  process  of  development  and  it  must  still 
further  precede  plain  statement.  Metaphor  is  no  extraneous  adornment 
fitted  upon  plain  language,  nor  an  artificial  perversion  of  non-figurative 
statement,  but  the  necessary  stage  through  which  speech  must  pass  on 
its  way  to  literalism.  In  short,  the  rhetoricians  have  begun  at  the  wrong 
end.  The  error  is  similar  to  that  committed  by  the  early  critics  who 
accounted  poetry  a  sophistication,  an  after-thought,  a  later  modification 
of  prose.  Metaphor  is  to  literal  language  as  poetry  to  prose.  Plain 
statement  must  be  defined  in  terms  of  metaphor,  not  metaphor  in  terms 
of  plain  statement. 

V.  Metaphor  is  pleasurable  to  the  reader,  not,  as  we  have  been 
told,  because  it  is  a  concise  expression  of  thought,  nor  because  it  brings 
images  before  the  mind,  nor  because  it  communicates  "an  air  of  strange- 
ness," nor  because  it  economizes  the  reader's  mental  energy,  nor  yet 
because  it  has  a  generally  stimulating  effect,  but  because  it  incites  the 
reader  to  reconstruct  the  mental  process  by  which  it  came  into  being, 
and  thus  sets  up  in  him  an  activity  which,  being  both  harmonious  and 
varied,  satisfies  the  demands  of  the  physical  organism  fornicely  adjusted, 
symmetrical,  free  yet  unified  exercise. 

VI.  Conceit  arises  when  the  normal  metaphor-process  is  artificially     -^ 
inverted;  mixed  metaphor  when  one  figure  has  been  so  rapidly  reduced 

to  plain  statement  that  its  original  constituents  have  passed  out  of  the 
writer's  consciousness,  and  he  is  thus  able,  without  sense  of  unfitness, 
to  add  another  figure  or  a  plain  statement  inconsistent  with  one  of  the 
metaphor  constituents. 

To  summarize  still  more  closely:  metaphor  is  not,  as  we  have  been 
taught,  an  isolated  phenomenon,  a  ' '  freak "  in  literature,  more  or  less 
inexplicable,,  an  arbitrary  "device"  of  the  writer,  but  a  genuine  ex- 
pression of  the  normal  process  of  thought  at  a  certain  stage  in  its  devel- 
ment,  consonant  with  the  ordinary  laws  of  psychology  and  interwoven 
with  all  our  common  experiences. 


APPENDIX   A. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

For  convenience  the  books  consulted  have  been  entered  under  three 
heads,  rhetoric,  philology,  and  philosophy,  the  latter  group  including 
psychology  and  aesthetics.  This  classification  is  somewhat  difficult  to 
maintain,  since  certain  books  are  both  philosophic  and  rhetorical,  or 
both  philological  and  philosophic;  but  in  general  the  class  rhetoric  re- 
ceives all  books  or  magazine  articles  whose  aim  seems  rather  rhetorical 
than  purely  philosophic,  and  the  class  philology  all  in  which  philosophic 
principles  seem  to  have  their  chief  value  as  aiding  in  the  solution  of  lin- 
guistic problems,  the  class  philosophy  containing  only  those  publications 
which  indubitably  have  no  other  aim  than  the  exposition  of  the  princi- 
ples of  pure  psychology  or  aesthetics. 

RHETORIC. 

Adams,  J.  Q.,  Lectures  on  Rhetoric  and  Oratory.  2  vols.  Cambridge:  Hilliard  &  Met- 
calf.  1870. — Aristotle,  Poetics. — Aristotle,  Riietoric.  Welldon  trans.,  N.  Y.:  Macmillan 
and  Co.     1886. — Atlantic  Monthly,  American  Metaphor,  73:  574. 

Bain,  Alex.,  English  Rhetoric  and  Composition.  2  vols.  London:  Longmans,  Green  & 
Co.  1890.^-BASCOM,  John  and  Morgan,  H.  H.,  Philosophy  of  Rhetoric.  New  ed.  N.  Y. : 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  i8g2.-^BATES,  Arlo,  Talks  on  Writing  English.  Boston:  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.  1897.  — Bauer,  J.,  Das  Bild  in  der  Sprache.  Ansbach,  1878,  iSSq.-^Bede,  De 
Schematis  et  Tropis  Sacrae  Scripturae  Liber.— Blackwood's  Magazine,  On  the  Use  of  Meta- 
phors. 18:719. ^^Blair,  Hugh,  Lectures  on  Rhetoric  and  Belles-Lettres.  N.  Y.:  1874.  ^'^ 
Am.  ed.— Bradley,  C.  B.,  The  Classification  of  Rhetorical  Figures,  Mod.  Lang.  Notes. 
1:140. — Brinkmann,  Die  Metaphern,  Studien  iiber  den  Gcist  der  modernen  Sprachen.  Bonn: 
1897. 

Cairns,  Wm.  B.,  Forms  of  Discourse.  Boston:  Ginn&Co.  i896.-^Campbell,  George, 
Philosophy  of  Rhetoric.  N.  Y. :  Harper  &  Bros.— Carpenter,  Frederic  Ives,  Metaphor  and 
Simile  in  the  Minor  Elizabethan  Drama.  University  of  Chicago  Press,  1895K— Carpenter,  G. 
R.,  Exercises  in  Rhetoric  and  English  Composition  (Adv.)  Boston:  W.  Small  &  Co.  1893. — - 
jCicero,  De  Oratore.-vCLARK,  J.  S.,  Practical  Rhetoric.     N.  Y. :  Henry  Holt  &  Co.     1887. 

Daniel,  Canon,  Educational  Metaphors.  The  Educational  Times,  London. — Darmste- 
ter,  Arsene,  La  Vie  des  Mots,  Etudiee  dans  Leurs  Significations.  Paris:  Librairie  Ch. 
Delagrave.  1893. — Day,  Henry  N. ,  The  Art  of  Discourse.  N.  Y.:  Scribner,  Armstrong  & 
Co.  1873. — De  MiLLE,  James,  Elements  of  Rhetoric.  Harper  &  Bros.  1878. — Doyle,  F.  C, 
Introduction  to  the  Study  of  Rhetoric.     N.  Y. :  Macmillan  &  Co.     1893. 

Earle,  John,  English  Prose.     London:  Smith,  Elder  &  Co.     1890. 

Frost,  H.  W.,  Figures  of  Speech.  Galaxy.  24:204. — Fruit,  John  Phelps,  The  Evolu- 
tion of  Figures  of  Speech.     Mod.  Lang.  Notes,  3:  251. 

Genung,  John  F.,  Practical  Rhetoric.  Boston:  Ginn  &  Co.  1887. — Gerber,  Gustav, 
Die  Sprache  als  Kunst.  Bromberg:  1871  and  1873.  2  vols. — Goldsmith,  Oliver,  On  the 
Use  of  Metaphors.  (Unacknowledged  essay,  in  vol.  HI.,  ed.  by  Cunningham).  London:  John 
Murray.  1854. — Gummere,  F.  B.,  The  Anglo-Saxon  Metaphor.  Halle:  1881. — Gummere, 
F.  B.,  Handbook  of  Poetics.  Boston:  Ginn  &  Co.  1896.  Gummere,  F.  B.,  Metaphor  and 
Poetry.     Mod.  Lang.  Notes,  1:83. 

Hale,  E.  E.,  Jr.,  Constructive  Rhetoric.  N.  Y.:  Henry  Holt  &  Co.  1896.— Hart,  J.  M., 
Handbook  of  English  Composition.  Philadelphia:  Eldredge  &  Bros.  1895. — Hense,  C.  C, 
Ppetische  Personification  in  griechischen  Dictungen.     Halle:  1868. — Hepburn,  A.  D.,  Manual 


—  71  — 

of  English  Rhetoric.  N.  Y.:  1875. — Hill,  Adams  Sherman,  Principles  of  Rhetoric.  .  N.  Y.: 
Harper  &  Bros.  1895. — Hill,  D.  J.,  Science  of  Rhetoric.  N.  Y. :  Sheldon  &  Co.  1896. — 
Hill,  D.  J.,  Elements  of  Rhetoric.  N.  Y.:  Sheldon  &  Co.  1893.— Hunt,  T.  W.,  Principles 
of  Written  Discourse.     N.  Y. :  A.  C.  Armstrong  &  Son.     1886. 

Kames,  Lord  (Henry  Home),  Elements  of  Criticism.  New  ed.  N.  Y. :  1838. — Keeler 
and  Davis,  Studies  in  English  Composition.  Boston:  Allyn  &  Bacon.  i8g2. — Kellogg, 
Brainerd,  Text-book  on  Rhetoric.  N.  Y.:  Clark  &  Maynard.  1882. — von  Kohfeldt,  G., 
Zur  Aesthetik  der  Metapher,  Zeitschrift  fiir  Phil,  und  phil.  Krit.     102:  220-286. 

Lockwood,  S.  E.  H.,  Lessons  in  English.  Boston:  Ginn  &  Co.  1890. — Longinus,  On 
the  Sublime.  Tr.  by  H.  L.  Havell.  N.  Y.:  Macmillan.  1890. — Lord,  David  M.,  Charac- 
teristics and  Laws  of  Figurative  Language.     N.  Y.:  1854. 

Marmontel,  Elements  of  Literature.  3  vols.  Paris:  1846. — McElroy,  John  G.  R., 
Structure  of  English  Prose.  4th  ed.  N.  Y. :  Armstrong  &  Son.  1890. — Mead,  Wm.  Edw., 
Elementary  Comp.  and  Rhet.  Boston,  New  York  and  Chicago:  Leach,  Shewell  &  Sanborn. 
1894. — MiNTO,  Wm.,  Manual  of  English  Literature.  Boston:  Ginn  &  Co.  1891. — MiNTO, 
Wm.,  Plain  Principles  of  Prose  Composition.  Edinburgh  and  London:  Wm.  Blackwood  &  Sons. 
1893.  — MoYSE,  Chas.  E.,  Poetry  as  a  Fine  Art.     London:  Elliot  Stock,  1883. 

Noble,  Harriet,  Literary  Art.  Terre  Haute,  Ind.:  Inland  Pub.  Co.  1897. — Noel, 
Roden,  On  the  Use  of  Metaphor  and  "Pathetic  Fallacy"  in  Poetry.     Fortnightly,  5:670. 

Puttenham,  Geo.,  Art  of  English  Poesie.  Pub.  as  vol.  I.  of  Ancient  Critical  Essays 
upon  English  Poets  and  Poesy.     2  vols.     London:  1811.     Ed.  by  Jas.  Haslewood. 

QUACKENBOS,  J.  D.,  Practical  Rhetoric.  New  York:  Am.  Book  Co.  1896.— QuiNTiL- 
lAN,  Institutes  of  Oratory. 

VON  Raumer,  Sigmund,  Die  Metapher  bei  Lucrez.  Erlangen:  1893. — Raymond,  Geo. 
Lansing,  Poetry  as  a  Representative  Art.  New  York:  G.  P,  Putnam's  Sons.  i386. — Robin- 
son, W,  C,  Forensic  Oratory.     Boston:  Little,  Brown  &  Co.     1893. 

Scott,  F.  N.  and  Denney,  J.  V., Composition-Rhetoric,  Boston:  Allyn  &  Bacon.  1897. 
— Shaw,  Edw.  R.,  English  Composition  by  Practice.  New  York:  Henry  Holt  &  Co.  1892. — 
Sherman,  L.  A.,  Analytics  of  Literature.  Boston:  Ginn  &  Co.  1893. — Spencer,  Herbert,  , 
Philosophy  of  Style.  Ed.  by  F.  N.  Scott.  Boston:  Allyn  &  Bacon,  1892. — Speranski,  W., 
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Stirling,  John,  A  System  of  Rhetoric,  containing  all  the  tropes  and  figures  necessary  to  illus- 
trate the  classicks.     i2th  ed.     London:  1795. 

Tompkins,  Arnold,  Science  of  Discourse.     Pub.  by  the  Author,  Greencastle,  Ind.     1889. 

Wackernagel,  Wilhelm,  Poetik,  Rhetorik  und  Stilistik.  2nd  ed.  Halle,  1888. — 
Welby,  Victoria,  Meaning  and  Metaphor.  Monist  3:  510. — Wendell,  Barrett,  English 
Composition.  New  York:  Chas.  Scribner's  Sons.  1893. — NYhately,  Richard,  Elements  of 
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1887. 

PHILOSOPHY. 

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Zeller,  E.,  Pre-Socratic  Philosophy.     London:  Longmans,  Green  &  Co.     1881. 

PHILOLOGY. 

Bleek,  W.  H.  J.,  On  the  Origin  of  Language.  Tr.  by  Thos.  Davidson.  N,  Y. :  L.  W. 
Schmidt.     1869. 

Dwight,  Benj.  W.,  Modern  Philology.  Its  Discoveries,  History  and  Influence.  N.  Y.  • 
Scribner's.     1864. 

Garnett,  Richard,  Philological  Essays.  London  and  Edinburgh.  1859.— de  Goddes- 
LiANCOURT,  Count,  and  Pincott,  Frederic,  Primitive  and  Universal  Laws  of  the  Formation 
and  Development  of  Language.     London:  1874. 

Hoffman,  W.  J.,  The  Beginnings  of  Writing.     N.  Y.:  D.  Appleton  &  Co.     1895. 

Jespersen,  Otto,  Progress  in  Language,  with  special  reference  to  English.  London: 
Swan  Sonnenschein  &  Co.     N.  Y.:  Macmillan  &  Co.     1894. 

Lefevre,  Andre,  Race  and  Language.  London:  Kegan  Paul,  Trench,  Triibner  &  Co. 
1894. 

MoNBODDO,  Lord  (Robert  Burnett),  On  the  Origin  and  Progress  of  Language.  6  vols: 
London:  1786.  2nd  edition. — MULLER,  F.  Max,  Lectures  on  the  Science  of  Language.  N.  Y.. 
Chas.  Scribner's  Sons.  1864.  2d  series. — Muller,  F.  Max,  Metaphor  as  a  Mode  of  Abstrac- 
tion. Fortn.  46:617. — MuLLER,  F,  Max,  Chips  from  a  German  Workshop.  N.  Y. :  Scribner 
&  Sons.     1881. 

Paul,  Hermann,  Principles  of  the  History  of  Language.  Tr.  by  H.  A.  Strong.  N.  Y.: 
Macmillan  &  Co.     1889. 

Renan,  Ernest,  De  L'Origine  du  Langage.     Paris:  1859.     3^  ed. 

Sayce,  a.  H.,  Introduction  to  the  Science  of  Language.— Sayce,  A.  H.,  Principles  of 
Comparative  Philology.     London:  Turner  &  Co.     1875.     2d  ed. 

Whitney,  W.  D.,  Life  and  Growth  of  Language.  N.  Y.:  Appleton  &  Co.  1S97.— 
Whitney,  W.  D,,  Oriental  and  Linguistic  Studies.     N,  Y.:  Scribner's.     1S73. 


APPENDIX    B. 

FORMER    DEFINITIONS    OF    METAPHOR. 

Aristotle's  well-known  description  of  a  metaphor  is  ' '  the  transposi- 
tion of  a  noun  from  its  proper  signification,  either  from  the  genus  to  the 
species,  or  from  the  species  to  the  genus;  or  from  species  to  species,  or 
according  to  the  analogous."  By  "metaphor"  here,  Aristotle  means, 
as  has  often  been  noted,  all  that  later  writers  commonly  included  under 
the  head  of  ' '  trope. "  Only  his  fourth  class  of  metaphor  corresponds  to 
our  modern  definition  of  the  word.  Figures  of  this  fourth  class,  however, 
together  with  the  other  three,  are  explained  as  consisting  in  a  transference 
of  meaning  which  takes  place  between  two  elements  in  the  figure.'  In  the 
case  of  the  metaphor  proper,  Aristotle's  fourth  class,  this  transference  is 
made  over  the  bridge  of  analogy.  Thus  in  the  figure  which  Aristotle 
cites  from  Homer, ^  two  elements  are  involved,  old  age,  the  thing  meant, 
and  "the  sere,  the  yellow  leaf,"  [KaXd[j.rjv^  literally  'the  stubble')  that  to 
which  it  is  compared,  the  resemblance  or  analogy  between  the  two  serv- 
ing to  unite  them.  So  also  the  metaphor  of  Iphicrates,^  when  he  said, 
"The  course  of  my  argument  runs  through  the  heart  of  Chares'  con- 
duct," is  made  up  of  two  ideas,  more  or  less  distinct  from  one  another, 
yet  connected  by  analogy,  the  march  of  an  army  through  the  heart  of 
the  enemy's  country,  and  the  progress  of  an  argument,  carrying  destruc- 
tion through  the  midst  of  the  conduct  it  traverses. 

Cicero's  statement,  that  "A  metaphor  is  a  brief  similitude,  contrac- 
ted into  a  single  word:  which  word,  being  put  in  the  place  of  another,  as 
if  it  were  in  its  own  place,  conveys,  if  the  resemblance  be  acknowledged, 
delight:  if  there  is  no  resemblance,  it  is  condemned,"*  insists  also  upon 
the  two  words  and  the  resemblance  which  shall  justify  their  connection. 

Quintilian's  definition  is  based  upon  the  same  conception  of  the 
metaphor  as  a  transference  of  meaning,  which,  as  such,  must  necessar- 
ily involve  two  elements.      "A  noun  or  a  verb,"  so  says  Quintilian,   "  is 

transferred,  as  it  were,  from  that  place  in  the  language  to  which 

it  properly  belongs  to  one  in  which  there  is  either  no  proper  word,  or  in 
which  the  metaphorical  word  is  preferable  to  the  proper."* 

Quintilian's  attempt  to  account  for  the  origin  of  the  figure  has  been 
considered  in  place."  For  the  present  it  will  be  sufficient  to  note  that  the 
dualism  of  metaphor  implied  in  its  definition  as  a  "transference  of  mean- 
ing," inheres  also  in  the  illustrations  used  by  Quintilian.      For  instance, 

*Cf.  Aristotle,  Rhetoric,  Bk.  Ill,  ch.  XI.      "Successful  similes are  always  in  a 

sense  popular  metaphors,  being  invariably  composed  of  two  terms  like  the  proportional  metaphor." 
*  Odyssey^  XIV,  214.     Referred  to  by  Aristotle  in  the  Rhetoric,  Bk.  Ill,  ch.  X. 
'Quoted  by  Aristotle,  Rhetoric^  Bk.  Ill,  ch.  X. 

*■  De  Oratore,  Bk.  Ill,  Ch.  XXXIX.     Tr.  by  J.  S.  Watson,  Bohn  ed. 
5  Institutes  of  Oratory,  Bk.  VIII,  Ch.  VI. 
^Chapter  I,  p.  2. 


—  74  — 

the  rustics  say  that   "the  corn  thirsts, "  ^  with  two  ideas  more  or  less 

clearly  in  mind the  feeling  of  a  man  in  like  circumstances  and 

the  feeling  of  the  corn,  the  word  applicable  to  the  feeling  of  the  man  be- 
ing borrowed  to  serve  as  representative  of  the  feeling  of  the  corn,  for 
which  no  proper  word  exists.  After  like  fashion,  in  the  expression 
"luminousness  of  language,'"^  the  quality  by  virtue  of  which  certain  ma- 
terial objects  are  enabled  to  illuminate  other  objects  is  transferred  to  that 
by  which  words  serve  to  reveal  thoughts.  So  Cornificius:  "Translatio 
est,  quum  verbum  in  quandam  rem  transfertur  ex  alia  re,  quod  propter 
similitudinem  recte  videbitur  posse  transferri. "  *  Other  definitions,  such 
as  those  of  the  Venerable  Bede,  Puttenham,  Hegel,  and  later  writers, 
being  based  upon  the  idea  of  transference  of  meaning,  also  imply  the 
dual  character  of  the  metaphor.*  "  Metaphora  est  rerum  verborumque 
translatio.  Haec  fit  modis  quattuor:  i.  ab  animali  ad  animal;  2.  ab 
inanimali  ad  inanimal;  3.  ab  animali  ad  inanimal;  4.  ab  inanimali  ad 
animal."  ^ 

"What  else  is  your  metaphor,"  asks  Puttenham,  "but  an  inversion 
of  sence  by  transport  ? " "  In  a  further  chapter  he  thus  illustrates  the 
point:  "To  call  the  top  of  a  tree  or  of  a  hill,  the  crowneof  a  tree  or  of 
a  hill,  for  indeed,  crowne  is  the  highest  ornament  of  a  prince's  head,  made 
like  a  close  garland  or  else  the  top  of  a  man's  head,  where  the  haire 
wends  about  and  because  such  term  is  not  applyed  naturally  to  a  tree, 
or  to  a  hill,  but  is  transported  from  a  man's  head  to  a  hill  or  tree,  there- 
fore it  is  called  by  metaphore,  or  the  figure  of  transport."'  "Die  meta- 
phor   ist  an  sich  schon  als  ein  Gleichniss  zu  nehmen,  insofern 

sie  die  fUr  sich  selbst  klare  Bedeutung  in  einer  damit  vergleichbaren 
ahnlichen  Erscheinung  der  concreten  Wirklichkeit  ausdriickt. "  *  "  The 
name  of  metaphor,"  so  declares  MUller,  "seems  to  imply  a  conscious 
transference  of  a  name  from  one  object  to  another,  both  previously 
known,  both  previously  named.""  We  have  poetic  metaphor,  says 
Bauer,  "  wenn  ein  Nomen  oder  Verbum,  das  fiir  ein  bestimmte  Object 
oder  eine  bestimmte  Handlung  fertig  gemacht  und  festgesetzt  ist,  in  dich- 
terischer  Weise  auf  ein  anderes  Object  oder  eine  andere  Handlung  Uber- 
tragen  wird. "  "> 

After  Cornificius,  it  will  be  observed,  the  definitions  cited   succeed 

>  Quintilian,  Institutes  of  Oratory,  Bk.  VIII,  Ch,  VI,  §  6. 

«Quintilian,  Institutes  of  Oratory,  Bk.  VIII,  Ch.  VI,  §  7. 

•Cornificius,  Rhetoric^  ad  Her.  IV,  34.  (Quoted  by  von  Raumer,  Die Metapher  bei  Lucrez, 
p.  I.) 

*The  following  definitions  belong  to  this  class:  »'A  metaphor,  as  indicated  by  the 
derivation  of  the  word, is  a  transfer  of  meanings,  one  thing  or  act  being  named  or  im- 
plied when  another  is  meant."  Genung,  Outl.  of  Rhet.^  p.  149.  "  Metaphor  is  the  transfer  to 
one  object  of  the  qualities  belonging  to  another.''  Dallas,  The  Gay  Science,  vol.  I,  Ch.  VIII, 
p.  289. 

*  Bede,  De  Schematis  et  Tropis  Sacrae  Scripturae  Liber.     Ch.  II  De  Tropis. 
«Art  of  English  Poesie,  Lib.  Ill,  Ch.  VII. 

»  Puttenham,  Art  of  English  Poesie,  Lib.  Ill,   Ch.  XVI. 

•  Hegel,  Aesthetik,  I,  p.  503. 

»  Miiller,  Metaphor  as  a  Mode  of  Abstraction,  Fortn.  46:  621. 
'"  Bauer,  Das  Bild  in  der  Sprache,  p.  23. 


—  75  — 

in  disclosing  only  two  constituents  of  the  metaphor,  although  Aristotle 
and  Cicero  had  noted  a  third,  the  resemblance  or  analogy  which  lies 
between  and  connects  the  two  major  elements.  A  curious  rhymed 
treatise  by  John  Stirling,  published  in  1764,  reverts  to  the  idea  that 
metaphor  is  tripartite.' 

' '  A  metaphor,  in  place  of  proper  words, 
Resemblance  puts."^ 

Whately  also  defines  metaphor  "  as  a  word  substituted  for  another, 
on  account  of  the  resemblance  or  analogy  between  their  significations." 
"In  metaphor,"  so  says  Campbell,  "the  name  of  one  thing  is  obtruded 
upon  us  for  the  name  of  another  quite  different,  though  resembling  in 
some  quality. "  *  Blair  repeats  these  definitions:  Metaphor  is  '  'founded  en- 
tirely on  the  resemblance  which  one  object  bears  to  another.  Hence  it 
is  no  other  than  a  comparison  expressed  in  an  abridged  form."' 

'  'Metaphor, "  to  Max  MUller,  *  'generally  means  the  transferring  of  a 
name  from  the  objects   to  which   it  properly  belongs  to  other  objects, 

1  Other  definitions  based  upon  this  conception  are  the  following: 

Metaphor  is "  that  kind  of  trope  which  is  taken  from  the  resemblance,  similitude 

or  analogy,  that  one  thing  has  to  another." — Monboddo,  Origin  and  Progress  of  Language^ 
Vol.  Ill,  Part  II,  Ch.  IV,  p.  38.  "A  metaphor  is  a  trope  in  which  the  representation  of  the 
object  is  effected  by  the  use  of  a  word  properly  denoting  something  analogous:  and  is  founded 
on  a  resemblance  or  identity  of  relations." — H.  N.  Day,  Art  of  Discourse^  p.  316,  §338.  Also 
Elements  of  the  Art  of  Rhetoric,  p.  267.  "The  metaphor  is  a  trope  founded  on  resemblance. 
It  is  the  substitution  of  one  notion  for  another  in  virtue  of  some  resemblance  or  analogy  between 
them." — Hepburn,  Manual  of  Rhetoric,  Part  II,  Ch.  Ill,  p.  g8. 

"  A  metaphor  is  an  expression  imputing  to  one  object  the  name  or  qualities  of  another  .  . 
.  .  .  This  figure  is  founded  on  the  apparent  resemblance  between  the  thing  whose  name  or  attri- 
butes are  mentioned  and  the  thing  to  which  they  are  applied." — W.  C.  Robinson,  Forensic  Ora- 
tory, §293. 

Metaphor  is  the  "accentuated  designation  of  an  object  of  thought  by  significant  resem- 
blance assumed"  (rather  than  affirmed). — C.  B.  Bradley,  Mod.  Lang.  Notes,  I,  140. 

"  Metaphor  is  a  figure  of  speech,  whereby  the  word  which  properly  belongs  to  one  set  of 
phenomena  is  transferred  to  another,  not  arbitrarily,  but  in  accordance  with  some  natural  and 
obvious  analogy."     John  Earle,  English  Prose,  p.  239. 

"  A  metaphor  may  be  defined  to  be  the  appellation  of  something  by  the  name  of  some 
other  thing,  to  which  it  has  some  similitude,  or  with  which  it  has  some  quality  in  common." 
— "T.  D."   Blackwood'' s  Magazine,  18:   719. 

" Two  figures  consist  in  the  comparison  of  objects  that  closely  resemble  each  other: — (a) 
Metaphor,  an  implied  comparison,  etc." — John  G.  R.  McElroy,  The  Structure  of  English  Prose, 
4th  ed.,  p.  239,  §298. 

"Metaphor,  or  Poetic  Transfer,  indicates  the  resemblance  of  two  objects  by  applying  the 
name,  attribute  or  act,  of  one  directly  to  the  other:  it  is  the  transferring  of  ,a  name  from  that  to 
which  it  properly  belongs  to  another  object  which  strikes  the  mind  as  having  the  same  peculiar- 
ities."— J.  D.  Quackenbos,  Pract.  Rhet.,  p.  279. 

"  In  strict  language,  metaphor  means  a  similitude  implied  in  the  use  of  a  single  word, 
without   the   formal   sign  of  comparison." — Wm.  Minto,  Manual  of  English  Prose,  Introd., 

"A  metaphor  is  an  implied  simile.  It  consists  in  giving  to  one  object  the  name,  attribute 
or  acts  of  another  on  the  basis  of  some  resemblance  between  the  two."-^J.  S.  Clark,  Practical 
Rhetoric,  p.  150. 

"Metapiior  is  another  figure  which  is  founded  upon  the  resemblance  of  one  thing  to 
another." — S.  E.  H.  Lockwood,  Lessons  in  English,  p.  68. 

'' A  metaphor  is  a  comparison  which  is  implied  between  two  objects  that  are  not  of  thq 
same  class." — Keeler  and  Davis,  Studies  in  Eng.  Comp.,  p.  100. 

*  John  Stirling,  Art  of  Rhetoric,  I,  i  and  2. 

*  Elements  of  Rhetoric,  Pt.  Ill,  Ch.  11,  §3. 
^Philosophy  of  Rhetoric,  Bk.  Ill,  Ch.  I,  §11. 

*  Lectures  on  Rhetoric  and  Belles-Lettres,  Lect.  XV. 


—  76  — 

which  strike  the  mind  as  in  some  way  or  other  participating  in  the  pecu- 
liarities of  the  first  object."' 

Bain^  describes  metaphor  as  a  "comparison,"  D.  J.  HilP  as  a  state- 
ment of  resemblance  between  two  objects  or  ideas,  Darmsteter  *  as  the 
transference  of  a  name  from  one  object  to  another,  by  virtue  of  a  char- 
acteristic common  to  both.  The  Century  Dictionary  puts  it  thus:  "  A 
figure  of  speech  by  which,  from  some  supposed  resemblance  or  analogy, 
a  name,  an  attribute  or  an  action  belonging  to  or  characteristic  of  one 
object  is  assigned  to  another  to  which  it  is  not  literally  applicable." 
"yA  These  definitions  shade  off  by  almost  imperceptible  degrees  into 
those  which,  while  making  resemblance  or  analogy  the  basis  of  the  trans- 
ference of  meaning,  represent  this  resemblance  as  heightened  to  the  point 
at  which  the  mind  must  conceive  of  the  two  objects  as  really  one.V  "A 
metaphor,"  says  Cairns,  "is  an  implied  comparison.  Its  most  common 
form  is  the  assertion  that  one  thing  is  another  when  the  differences  be- 
tween the  two  plainly  make  such  a  statement  absurd  except  in  a  figura- 
tive sense."  ®  Scott  and  Denney,  Arnold  Tompkins,  D.  J.  Hill  and  L. 
A.  Sherman  pursue  the  point  further: 

"In  metaphorical  expressions,  the  thing  and  the  image  blend  to- 
gether, and  we  speak  of  the  thing  as  if  it   actually  were  the   image."' 

1  Lectures  on  the  Science  of  Language,  2d  Series,  p.  368. 

"^  Eng.  Comp.  and  Rhet.,  Parti,  p.  159. 

^  Sci.  of  Rhet.,  Bk.  Ill,  Ch.  II,  §  i,  Nature  of  Metaphor. 

*•  La  Vie  des  Mots,  p.  5/. 

*In  addition  to  those  cited  in  the  text  the  following  may  be  of  interest:  "A  closer  asso- 
ciation of  objects  than  by  simile  is  made,  when,  instead  of  comparing  one  thing  with  another,  we 
identify  the  two,  by  taking  the  same  or  assuming  the  attributes  of  the  one  for  the  other." — J.  F. 
Genung,  Practical  Rhetoric,,  Ch.  Ill,  §  II. 

"  In  der  Vergleichung  als  solcher  aber  ist  Beides,  der  eigentliche  Sinn  und  das  Bild, 
bestimmt  von  einander  geschieden,  w'ahrend  diese  Trennung,  obgleich  an  sich  vorhanden,  in  der 
Metapher  noch  nicht  gesetzt  ist." — Hegel,  Aesthetik,  I,  503. 

"Der  metaphorische  Ausdruck  namlich  nennt  nur  die  eine  Seite,  das  Bild;  in  dem  Zusam- 
menhang  aber,  in  welchem  das  Bild  gebraucht  wird,  liegt  die  eigentliche  Bedeutung,  welche 
gemeint  ist,  so  nahe,  dass  sie  gleichsam  ohne  directe  Abtrennung  vom  Bilde  unmittelbar  zugleich 
gegeben  ist." — Hegel,  Aesthetik,  I,  504. 

"  A  metaphor  is  a  figure  of  speech,  in  which,  assuming  the  likeness  between  two  things, 
we  apply  to  one  of  them  the  term  which  denotes  the  other." — Brainerd  Kellogg,  Text-book  on 
Rhetoric,  Lesson  46. 

"A  metaphor  is  an  implied  comparison.  In  comparison  the  resemblance  between  two 
things  is  formally  expressed.  In  metaphor  the  sign  of  comparison  is  dropped,  the  two  are  iden- 
tified, and  the  one  is  asserted  to  be  the  other."     Jas.  De  Mille,  Elements  of  Rhetoric,  p.  no. 

"  A  metaphor  is  a  figure  of  speech  in  which,  assuming  the  likeness  between  two  things,  we 
apply  to  one  of  them  the  term  which  denotes  the  other." — Wm.  Williams,  Composition  and  Rhe- 
toric, p.  175. 

"  In  metaphor  we  directly  substitute  the  action  of  one  object  for  that  of  another.  The  two 
objects  are  so  completely  identified  that  we  think  only  of  the  substitute  and  forget  the  original." 
— J.  M.  Hart,  Handbook  of  English  Composition,  p.  181. 

"  A  metaphor  is  an  affirmation  or  representation  by  words,  that  an  agent,  object,  quality 
or  act,  is  that  which  it  merely  resembles." — D.  N.  Lord,  Characteristics  and  Laws  of  Figura- 
tive Language,  Ch.  Ill,  p.  31. 

*'  A  figure  in  which  the  comparison  between  two  unlike  things  is  implied  instead  of  ex- 
pressly stated  is  called  a  metaphor." — E.  R.  Shaw,  English  Composition  by  Practice,  p.  74. 

"  In  a  metaphor  the  resemblance  is /w//i<f(/,  and  this  is  accomplished  by  combining  in  a 
connected  thought  one  or  more  terms  from  both  ideas  so  as  to  suggest  the  resemblance  without 
declaring  it." — Harriet  Noble,  Literary  Art,  p.  156. 

*  The  Forms  of  Discourse,  Ch.  I,  p.  37. 

'  Scott  and  Denney,  Composition  Rhetoric,  Lesson  28,  p.  222. 


—  77  — 

"Metaphor"  instead  of  expressing  a  resemblance,  asserts  or  assumes  an 
identity The  metaphor  ventures  to  exaggerate  the  resem- 
blance, as  the  more  cautious  simile  would  give  it,  into  total  identity,  "i 
"In  the  metaphor,  resemblance  is  not  formally  expressed,  but  so  em- 
phatically implied  as  to  affirm  an  identity  of  the  objects  compared."^ 
"  Metaphor  consists  in  seeing  one  thing  spiritually  identical  with  another 
thing."  ^ 

' '  When  this  likeness  is  assumed,  and  the  picture  or  comparison  is 
put  directly  in  place  of  the  thing  itself,  we  have  what  is  commonly 
known  as  the  metaphor."* 

In  this  class  of  definitions  we  find  an  assertion  of  the  identity  of 
the  thing  said  with  the  thing  meant,  together  with  a  recognition  of  the 
fact  that  the  two  are,  after  all,  essentially  separate.  This  contradictory 
position  becomes  logically  tenable,  however,  if  it  be  understood  some- 
what as  follows:  The  connecting  link  of  resemblance  or  analogy  has, 
under  stress  of  the  writer's  excited  mood,  been  shortened:  the  two  ele- 
ments have  approached  each  other:  they  have  almost  fused.  But  how- 
ever closely  identified  they  may  seem  to  the  writer  in  a  fervid  moment, 
on  reflection  and  analysis  he  perceives  them  to  be  distinct.  As  Cairns 
naively  observes,  "The  differences  between  the  two  (objects  or  ideas) 
plainly  make  such  a  statement  (that  of  their  identity)  absurd  except  in 
a  figurative  sense."  In  other  words,  the  analytic  eye  detects  always 
the  suture  between  the  two  constituents  of  the  metaphor  and  pronounces 
the  figure  to  be  two  and  not  one.^  Those  definitions  which  profess  the 
identity  of  the  two  elements  in  the  metaphor,  are,  then,  no  less  than 
those  earlier  cited,  committed  to  the  position  that  in  essential  structure 
this  figure  is  a  complex,  analyzable  into  two  or  more  quite  distinct  con- 
stituents. 

The  explicit  statement  of  the  presence  of  three  constituents  is  made 
for  us  by  Adams,  Hepburn,  and  Paul.  "In  the  various  forms  of  figur- 
ative speech,  included  under  the  denomination  of  tropes,  there  are  three 
things  which  require  our  attention;  the  literal,  or,  as  it  is  sometimes 
called,  the  proper  meaning  of  the  word;  the  idea  meant  to  be  conveyed 
by  it;  and  the  chain  of  communication  between  them.  This  chain  of 
communication  is  no  other  than  the  association  of  ideas.  "^ 

"The  points  to  be  noticed  in  all  tropes  are: 

1st.  The  original  main  thought,  or  the  proper,  literal  signification 
of  the  term. 

2d.  The  substituted  thought,  or  the  derivative  meaning  of  the 
term. 

1  Arnold  Tompkins,  Science  of  Discourse^  p.  385. 

2D.  J.  Hill,  Science  of  Rhetoric,  p.  213. 

'  L.  A.  Sherman,  Analytics  of  Literature,  Notes,  Ch.  X,  p.  399. 

*F.  B.  Gummere,  Handbook  of  Poetics^  Pt.  II. 

^Karnes  also  asserts  the  psychological  separation  of  the  two  elements:  "In  a  metaphor,  the 
two  subjects  are  kept  distinct  in  the  thought  only,  not  in  the  expression." — Els.of  Crit.,  Ch.XX, 
§6,  p.  381. 

« J.  Q.  Adams,  Lectures  on  Rhetoric  and  Oratory,  Lect.  33. 


—  78  — 

3d.  The  relation  between  the  two,  or  the  principle  on  which  the 
transfer  has  been  made."'  Paul  discourses  somewhat  more  philosoph- 
ically upon  the  same  theme:  "We  are  accustomed  to  say  that,  for  a 
comparison  to  be  made,  there  must  necessarily  be,  besides  the  two  ob- 
jects compared,  a  tertium  comparationis,  or  third  object  with  which 
they  are  compared.  But  this  tertium  is  nothing  new,  nothing  added  to 
what  we  have  already,  but  it  is  that  part  of  the  contents  of  the  two 
combinations  (groups)  of  ideas  compared  with  each  other  which  they 
have  in  common."^ 

»A.  D.  Hepburn,  Manual  of  Eng.  Rhet.,  Pt.  II,  Ch.  Ill,  p.  95. 
^  Prins.  of  Hist,  of  Lang.,  Ch.  IV,  p.  76. 


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